A Game of Hearts
by primewire
Summary: Sansa has allowed herself to be Petyr's pawn, but for what purpose? Will she get the revenge on the Lannisters that she desires, or will her desire turn towards something a little more... unorthodox. A tale of Sansa and Petyr.
1. Chapter 1

A sharp wind blew in from Sansa's balcony, but it didn't bother her. If anything, it reminded her of her home in Winterfell - with its familiar walls that held the last of her youthful innocence. In truth, she missed those times dearly, but she had come to a crossroads in her life. One path was the same path she'd been traveling on for months; she could be the scared, dimwittedly tearful child who mourned for all of the misfortune that had befallen her almost extinct family, or she could wake up. Sansa could continue allowing herself to be at the mercy of those around her, or she could play the games they played. Learn how to play them better.

She had been living her life in a daze, allowing people to make her their pawn, but no longer. Her name no longer held her Stark title, anyway. Now she was Alayne Stone, at least for the time being, and she knew that this was a time that required her to grow in ways she had never thought necessary. This world had turned against her, and as such, she would learn to take it by the horns. Unlike Sansa, Alayne was a victim to none.

A light knock on the door made her pause, a brush halfway pulled through her hair. Looking out her opened balcony doors, she could see that it was well into the night - she had no doubt who would be knocking at her door at this hour. With a glance down at her night clothes, Alayne beckoned him inside.

"Lord Father," she greeted him, pulling the brush through her hair again.

"Dearest daughter, I hope you have been keeping yourself comfortable?" Lord Baelish had been gone for a few days, not that she was complaining. She didn't enjoy his company, rather, she prefered it to everyone else at Eyrie. And that was saying little for him.

"Yes," admitted Alayne, watching as he moved to her balcony to close it. She was reminded of King's Landing. Someone is always watching, Baelish would remind her. "Although it's impossible not to, with most of the people here terrified of getting on your bad side."

Baelish chuckled, his hands clasped in front of him as he came to stand behind her. They made eye contact, and she could see the amusement in her eyes - as though he were in on a secret. But then again, when wasn't he?

"I would think that would please you, sweetling. Finally having nothing to fear." Plucking the brush from her hands, he began brushing her hair for her. "That is, as long as you stay on top of these roots. Your red hair is a dead giveaway to your lineage."

It was true, she had to admit. The dark brown that she had been forced to dye her hair definitely dissuaded strangers from inquiring into her bloodline. As far as anyone knew, she was Littlefinger's daughter, soon to be wed to Harrold, and little more. As Alayne, this may have even been a great fate, but for Sansa it was just another in a long line of disappointments. This one, however, she swore would be different.

A tug on her hair made her look at Baelish again, who was now chiding her. "Don't get so lost in your thoughts, child. It is a sign of weakness, people will think you are not strong minded. You mustn't forget my lessons."

"Yes, father."

Sensing her melancholy, Baelish sat next to her on the bench and forced her to turn towards him. She was getting used to his brazen familiarity, though part of her always hesitated. It's not that he was unkind - he was Littlefinger, and she knew what he wanted, deep within him. But Alayne wasn't running from it – she was accepting it, and hoping that in the future she could use it to her advantage. Perhaps it should have made her more uncomfortable when he ran his fingers through her hair, but it didn't. She was a slab of marble and he was just an artist, as far as she was concerned. He ran a finger across her jawline and she looked up at him in question.

"Are you terribly unhappy?" His question sounded honest, but she had been playing his game for far too long to take anything on how it seemed.

"I am not unhappy, Lord Baelish. I am simply... Full of thoughts. Not of my family or my situation, but of how I may mold my future."

"Ah," Baelish was clearly intrigued. "What is in your future? White knights and romance with wine and red roses?"

She knew he was teasing, but she saw no humor in it. "Those things have no place in my life. Not anymore, anyway. I'd rather seek revenge for my family, I'd rather hold a power similar to… yours, my lord, where I can take and do whatever pleases me. And I... I will never be anyone's victim again." The last words rushed out of her before she could stop herself. She thought he'd be offended, but he merely observed her own face - perhaps seeing if her words held true meaning.

Placing his fingers under her chin, he leaned towards her. She tensed slightly, smelling the mint and cloves on his breath. "And do you consider yourself a victim of mine?"

A loaded question. "I... I am willing to be your victim, because it is the best option I have." Alayne's pulse raced, feeling more like Sansa than ever. A flush filled her cheeks as she saw Baelish's eyes glint in the candlelight. He was going to kiss her - he always did, when he returned from a journey or visited her room a night. But he pushed nothing more on her, so in all honesty, she did not mind it very much.

"That is, perhaps, the smartest thing you have ever said." His thumb traced over the curve of her chin. She was about to respond when he pressed his lips to hers. They were soft and inviting, but she held herself back. To return his kiss would be to let him win, and she just couldn't bring herself to give him that satisfaction.

As he pulled away, Sansa did her best to keep her face impassive, but she knew the red in her cheeks would betray her. In these intimate moments, she could never truly be Alayne. There was simply too much of Sansa still within her.

"Goodnight, Lord Baelish." He looked somewhat bemused by her sudden dismissal, but quickly replaced the grin on his face and gave her a fatherly kiss on the forehead in response.

"Goodnight, sweetling."

She waited until he had closed the door behind him before she would relax her hands. They had been clenched together tightly in her lap the entire time. Observing her palms showed her deep nail marks that were nearly bloodied. The dark haired woman in the mirror stared back at her, daring her to do something - anything.

But she couldn't.

As she laid in bed that night she reminded herself of what her future could hold if she played her cards right.

Hardyns. Waynwoods. Freys. Alayne spent most of her time around Lords and Ladies who explained to her how lucky she was to be marrying into such a family. How darling Harrold was, how strong their lineage was, and how promising her future would now be as his wife – she heard these things each day. These were topics that they buzzed about constantly. To her credit, she handled them in stride. These people were nothing compared to the harshness of the Lannisters. Alayne nodded when she needed to, laughed modestly when she ought to, and gasped whenever a tale of feats was being told - no matter that she had heard the story many times already from the same man. She was a Stark in everything but name, and damn it if she was going to let social inaccuracies be her downfall in all of this.

That evening, she found herself at a table, sipping tea and nibbling her food while politics were discussed all around her. Baelish headed the front of the table, while she was to his left and Lord Watworth was to his right. They were having a conversation about the crops to the east of Eyrie, and whether or not they had been evenly dispersed in a recent trade that had taken place between the lords. Alayne tried to focus on what they were saying, but the lady next to her was consistently chirping in her ear.

"So sad, what happened to that dear Lysa." Her lips were stained red from wine, and the smell of it washed over Alayne as she tried to keep her face polite. "But she was an odd duck, you know."

"Was she?" Deciding to play along with her guest, she feigned interest. "I only knew her a short time, and even then, not in a personal enough company to form an opinion."

"Oh yes, dear me," the woman leaned in closer - damned if Alayne could remember her name, Lady Sarn or something - and looked to Lord Baelish to make sure he wasn't listening. "Your poor father, probably gave her the benefit of the doubt when it came to her state of mind. The woman's relationship with her son was, well, just embarrassing. And you know of course I just hate to gossip, really, but the woman was quite off her rocker!"

"My father must have been unaware of that."

"Oh I can't imagine how!" She snorted and Alayne turned to her with a look of warning. The lady caught her eye and halted whatever she was about to say. A daughter wouldn't tolerate bad-mouthing of her father, faux or not.

"Lady Sular," interrupted Lord Baelish, his tone cool and leveled. "Was it a long journey here from the east? I imagine you are exhausted, being the active sight seer that you are - you probably didn't catch a wink of sleep the entire trip." The table laughed together, but Alayne could see that Baelish's eyes hardly held the amusement of his words. His eyes held hers for a moment before someone spoke up to him again.

"Lord Protector, a man as handsome as you, surely you have a new woman just waiting to be your wife." The table roared with laughter again, as the woman who called out to him was teased for having secret affections. The young widow laughed. "I'm still young!"

Lady Sular laughed with the rest of them as they fell into conversations of marriages past and relationships torn asunder. Alayne stared down at her tea, wishing it was something stronger. She wished to be excused from all the excitement, but when she turned to address Baelish, he was already staring at her.

"Yes," he nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. He was clearly talking about her to the man next to him. "She really is beautiful, I agree. Like her mother, only more so." Alayne blushed deeply, dropping her gaze slightly.

"Too bad you have to wed her off to Harry, I think my Lady would let me carry a second wife." He laughed as the woman next to him pinched his arm. "Ah, love! A joke, a joke! I'm sure the lass is very happy that she will wed the Hardyng boy."

A few people around Alayne listening in turned to her, curious for her response. Taking her cue, she smiled modestly and tried to fidget with her hair as though she were uncomfortable. "I am very... Hopeful that he will be pleased with me."

"I would be!" Called someone from a few chairs down, and as more agreements came forward the hall was filled with laughter once more. She turned away from them, letting her hair cover her face slightly so that she could catch Lord Baelish's gaze. He was sitting back in his chair, relaxed, the vision of a man with no worries. As usual, he kept one arm propped up bon his chair by the elbow so as to leave a hand close to his mouth should he have to hide a look. The Lord rubbed his chin, looking at her with what seemed to be genuine fondness. Perhaps even pride. She wondered if, perhaps, he viewed her as a prized possession – one that he would break down and hone to his liking.

"I think our talk has gotten far too foul for this one's ears. Give your father a kiss goodnight and then off to bed."

"Yes, Father." She stood, offering everyone a farewell before she kissed her father on the cheek and retired to her room. Or that's what she should have done, anyway. Instead, Alayne decided to venture into Baelish's library. Hearing those strangers discuss war and politics and agriculture had left her feeling dull and dimwitted. If she was going to be a woman of wisdom and wit, surely she would need to have read the books that powerful men read. Anyone with sense in their head knew that. Besides, there was still so much light left in the day.

Walking straight past her bedchamber, she made her way to the library. It was very cold, as a fire wasn't always lit in that room, so she quickly made herself one before plopping down onto an overstuffed sofa in the corner of the room. It smelled of old papers and ink. Alayne looked at the desk in the middle of the room and pictured Baelish there, writing away to one of his spies – sealing a fate for someone so unknowing. Perhaps even her.

There was a stack of books on the table right next to it, all of them so worn that she could hardly read them. She positioned herself so that the light from the window was shining right on the pages.

The first book talked all about war. A man never truly becomes a man until he has seen his first battle, the book claimed. For a man to spill the blood of another's, he must understand the strategy and brilliance of war. He must fight with honor and dignity, never forgetting that he is forever serving his father and his king. Nothing is nobler than a man with true virtue, diligence…

Alayne pulled a blanket around her, as the fire was not heating her fast enough. The next book talked of money - things about debt and interest. Earning your own money was clearly better than borrowing money, because the interest that was placed on borrowed money made it almost like working a second job. Money was relative, as well – the price of gold fluctuated, which she had not known before. The idea of paper money had been suggested at one point in time, but was quickly dismissed.

She was getting tired and bored, and the light was beginning to fade. As she pulled the last book onto her lap, she noticed that the word pleasure was stamped on the front. She hesitated, knowing that Baelish's pleasure houses had given him quite the notoriety. Growing up, she had been fairly sheltered, and she imagined that the book in her hands held a great deal of things a lady shouldn't know about. Then again, she was hardly a lady, anymore. Putting it down would have been the right thing to do, but her curiosity overwhelmed her.

The book opened right to the middle. A sketch of a man and woman colored its pages. They were both nude, and the man was on his knees, while the woman lay in front of him. Sketched in ink, you could just barely make out the hard, tautness of her nipples. His arms were wrapped around her thighs and his head was buried in her sex. The woman held his hair in her hands, a look on her face that could have only been one of pleasure. Alayne's heart raced, her breathing suddenly feeling too loud. Looking around to ensure no one had randomly decided to attend the library, she snuggled further into her blanket and continued reading.

She flipped through the pages, seeing a picture of a woman with her hand in her own sex. Curious, she had never heard of that before. Perhaps she would try that some time, if ever the need arose. The picture she stopped on, though, was one that looked like Lord Baelish. He had a woman poised up against a wall, his hand on her throat and his mouth beckoning for hers. As her eyes drifted downward, she saw his lean figure and erect manhood pressed into the woman. Alayne shuddered, surprised at herself. There was something about imagining Baelish in such a carnal nature that... Excited her, somehow. It was curious to her, because she had been so stoic towards his minute advances thus far.

Closing her eyes, she imagined herself as the woman in the picture, and wondered what it would be like to allow another person so close. What must desire feel like? What is it about lust that drives men and women mad? She wondered what that type of desire would be like, and in the process of letting her mind run away with her, her eyes grew heavy.

The sound of a roaring fire brought her from her dreams. She blinked away the images and let her eyes adjust to the light. She hadn't meant to fall asleep and now she wondered how late it must be.

"Have a good read?" Baelish's words halted her, and as she tensed, she felt the book still in her hands. When she looked down, the image of him and another woman mocked her from its pages and she quickly shut the book, causing him to laugh wryly. Alayne cursed him for his silent entrances and haughty attitude.

"Don't be embarrassed, curiosity is natural." Moving to sit beside her on the couch, he took the book from her hands. "Look at me."

Unable to do so before, she looked up at him and blasted her red cheeks for showing her innocence. She had wanted him to view her only as an adversary, not let him think he had the upper hand. He stared at her for a while, reading her eyes.

"Is that you?" Blurting out the words before she knew what she was saying. He seemed startled at her effrontery, a feeling she shared. "I, I mean - Lord Baelish -"

"We are quite alone here," he said, ignoring her blathering as he flipped through the book to find the page in question. "Call me Petyr."

"Petyr." Repeated Alayne, the feel of his name foreign on her tongue. "Please, I don't want to see it again."

"No?" It was too late, his finger was tracing the curves of the bodies pictured. "You think this is me? Striking similarity I will agree... Did you like this, Sansa?"

She was Sansa again. Stupid and emotional and vulnerable. Sansa opened her mouth to answer, but closed it again. He chuckled, closing the book and putting it on the table, much to her relief. He sat back, putting his arm over the back of the couch. She shrugged the blanket off and looked at him. "I'm truly sorry, I didn't mean to find that."

"What did you want to find, then?" He twirled a piece of her hair between his fingers playfully. His gray green eyes roamed over her hair and shoulders, making her feel immodest. For the first time, Alayne looked at him as though he were any other man. His hint of a beard complimented his face, making his cheek bones more pronounced. His eyes held a greenness to them that she had never seen before.

"I wanted to... To expand my mind, like you have with yours." His hand stalled slightly and he looked at her with a hint of curiosity.

"I just wanted to... To understand... Things. Better." The words stumbled out of her mouth, but he seemed to accept her answer with a silent nod of his head. Relaxing her shoulders, she gave a slight stretch. The couch hadn't been a nice sleeping partner.

"You didn't answer my question." Baelish said, but her gaze held question. "Did you like what you saw?"

"I did not enjoy them the way you might."

"Sst, such a mouth on you tonight, my dear." He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing her fingertips a then softly kissing her wrist. "Do you think I'm wrong for dealing in matters of pleasure?"

"I suppose I should say that it should be saved for love, but then I'd be a fool, wouldn't I?"

Baelish nodded, placing a finger over her wrist before pulling her closer to him. She knew that resisting was pointless by now, so she abided. "Yes, but not a fool in the way you think. Just a fool in the sense that you are innocent."

He pressed his lips to hers, pulling her so close that she was almost in his lap. She could taste wine on his lips, and when he parted her lips with her tongue she drew back, looking at him. Baelish held her gaze. "Your pulse is racing, sweetling. It betrays you."

Opening her mouth to give some foolish protest, Sansa found his lips against hers once more. They were more insistent than usual, his tongue easily finding its way to hers as the kiss deepened. The taste of mint and wine was surprisingly pleasing to her, and she felt her hand splay itself across his chest. He was a lean man but a solid one. Loving her willingness, he pulled her on top of him, silencing her gasp with continued kissing. Baelish's hands rested on her waist, and just when she was beginning to enjoy the heated moment, he pulled her away.

Sansa brought a hand to her lips, shocked at her own desire. Lust was unfamiliar to her. Petyr had a look of wanton about him that made her shudder suddenly, which made him smile. He brought her to him, holding her at his chest and resting his cheek on her hair as he ran a hand across her back. "Did it upset you, the idea of me bedding another woman, my darling?"

Breaking from the trance of the moment, Sansa realized how inappropriate of a position they were in and hurriedly removed herself from him. Why would it have upset her? Why would she care? She had no feelings for this man. He kept his hands adrift, as though hoping she would change her mind. "What you do is of no business of mine… father. You should do whatever it is that pleases you, my duty is only to obey."

Her last words cutting like a knife, she left before he could utter a word, rushing down the hallways, not as Sansa but again as Alayne.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

Alayne awoke with a start, clutching her hand to her chest as she felt her heart racing. Her dreams withered away from her memory, but she could still see Joffrey's terrible, malicious smile. As her heartbeat faded into a normal beat, she relaxed against her pillows once more. The room was filled with the soft hues of half-light, and although it would have been beneficial to get more sleep, she had no desire to risk seeing his awful face again.

Throwing off her covers, she tiptoed over the cold floor to where her fire was simple cinders. Hauling a few logs on top of it, she waited a few moments before the flames began to flicker and lick at the wood once more. Sansa rarely had to make her own fires, but Alayne would be quite used to such a thing. Alayne didn't mind the splinters that she was now picking out of her deceptively delicate hands. She rubbed her smooth palms together for a moment before the fire, watching as it ate away at the logs. A slow death, but a sure one.

A bird chirped outside, startling her. The night clothes she wore were thin, so she shrugged a thick, fur coat over her and stepped towards the windows. Sure enough, a bird sat on the stone rail of the balcony, chirping away as though it were a sunny, spring morning. Opening the balcony doors, Alayne softly called to the bird. It looked at her with curiosity as it hopped across the snow. There was a light covering of snow on the balcony, but she stepped onto it anyway – her arm outstretched for the bird. A light coo came from her lips, somehow hoping that the bird would overcome its natural fear and land on her hand. Unfortunately, as soon as the sound left her lips, the bird shot off – into the winter sky.

With a sigh, Alayne dropped her arm down to her sides. She stepped back away from the snow and took a deep breath of the cold air around her. It was good to feel such familiar things, in a world of such unfamiliarity.

Closing the doors behind her, she made her way to the bench in front of her mirror. Alayne wondered at her appearance as she worked her hair into a braid. It was a wonder to her that she still interested Lord Baelish, considering her hair was so dark that she could hardly look like Catelyn anymore. Her mind wandered to the book she had seen, and how Lysa had screamed so loudly on their wedding night. Could that have been real? She wondered, finishing her braid and moving to put on her clothes – or was Lysa merely enjoying the idea of having him? Not that it mattered now, Alayne would never have a chance to inquire into the matter – not that she would have anyway.

A sound of rustling in the hallway made her pause. Moving to the corner of the room, she watched as the door opened and Baelish silently walked through. He paused when he saw that her bed was empty, pausing with his hand on the door behind him. There was something in his hands.

"Good morning, Father." Alayne closed the door behind him. He turned only slightly, as though knowing she was there all along, and sat a tray of food on her bed.

"Alayne – you are up quite early." Baelish noted, taking in the full sight of her. Nodding slightly, she turned her back to him – where her dress needed to be laced up.

"Help me, will you?"

Alayne could feel his raised eyebrows, even though she could not see it. She was being rather bold, but after her childish display the night before, she knew of nothing else to help solidify her control over the matter. Baelish hesitated, his hands barely touching her sides – her hips – before coming to the laces and working them expertly up her back. Holding her braid in her hand, Alayne wondered how many times he had done the exact same thing… only in an opposite direction. How many women had he undressed in his lifetime of lies and whores?

"Harrold is coming today," commented Baelish, tugging too tightly on the last laces. She braced her stomach, glad that he was unable to see her look of disappointment with the news. "I trust that you will be as courteous as ever, my dear."

"Of course. I am so happy to have such a great opportunity."

"Your hair looks nice like this, loosely braided. It's not the type of hairstyle I have seen you wear before." He pulled back on her braid, jerking her head back and causing her to stifle a cry of pain. Everything in her body wanted her to bring her hands to her hair to push him away, but she blinked back the tears and endured. "Are you teasing me, sweetling? Do you think you can unravel me?"

Slowly, Alayne brought her hands up to her braid and pulled it out of his now loose hands. Turning to him, she attempted a look of boredom that she knew her eyes betrayed. They were nearly the same height, and she could look him straight in the eye. "I have no intention of doing so."

"I'm sure." He smiled, turning to walk the room. "Lady Waynwood will be calling on you shortly. She is, you could say… Harrold's matron."

"I see," Alayne poured herself some of the tea that he had brought and sat down at the small table she had in her room. Baelish looked out of the window, no doubt noting the footprints she had made in the snow. Something a foolish girl would do, surely. "Is there anything I should say in particular to her? To make her feel… more assured."

"No one has ever heard of you before, most are quite curious. It is absolutely necessary… that you are the peak of charisma and charm."

"Like Joffrey's wife… Margaery Tyrell." Suggested Alayne, remembering how the low-cut bloused young woman had taken King's Landing by the lapels. There was a woman who played her cards right, but who was the one helping her choose her plays, Alayne wondered.

"Margaery Tyrell is nothing compared to what you will become, sweetling," Baelish came to her side, sitting on the other chair at the tiny table. He put his palms on it, leaning towards her, making sure she had his eyes in hers so as to understand the levity of what he was saying. "You can be your own weapon, just as I am mine. That is what you said you wanted, is it not?"

Alayne nodded her head slowly, considering the concept of it all. Baelish sighed, reaching his hand forward slightly and lacing his fingers with hers. He gave her hand a light squeeze and she attempted a smile. "I hope… I hope to see that happen, yes."

"Of course you do. No student of mine would want anything less."

"And this marriage is important, so naturally I want to do everything I can to make sure it happens. So… get on Lady Waynwood's good side… and everything should fall into place?"

"Good girl." Baelish leaned back, steepling his fingers in his lap. "Now eat something before she comes. Waynwoods don't like women who are too thin, many people view it as a sign that they cannot bear children."

"Children," mulled Alayne, eating bites of porridge. "What an awful world to bring children into. But I suppose I need to produce an heir, don't I?"

It was a question that didn't need asking, but she did so anyway. Baelish looked at her, taking all of her in. Alayne hated when he did that, she felt as though he could see right through her, and it always made her blush. Taking a note from his own hand at games, she took another bold step.

"Will you miss me, then… when I'm gone?" Biting her lip, nearly in regret of even opening such a door that she honestly did not care to open, she watched as his eyes darted towards the movement and immediately wished she had said nothing.

"You'll never be gone, Sansa." He stood. At first it seemed as though he was going to take hold of her, but then he turned on his heel and walked towards the door. His steps were not as assured as they normally were, and she felt a small satisfaction in the fact that she had gotten into his head. Baelish turned to her, his hand on the door. "You will always be mine."

With the slam of the door, Alayne felt her heart drop completely. Was he right? Would she always be a victim of his will? No. Not if she found a way to hold the upper hand. Not if she stopped letting him near her once she was married. Perhaps marrying Harrold would be a blessing. She would simply take the lessons that Baelish gave her and use them against him. He wasn't the only one that held power, she decided.

Sure enough, Lady Waynwood had come for her bright and early. She was a short woman with bountiful hips, and Alayne could tell that in her younger years she must have been a pretty little thing. Now, though, she was a woman who seemed to enjoy the concept of power – rather than having it. Her sideways comments were clumsy and she staggered through certain words, as though she were trying to mimic someone she had once known, but their words didn't feel quite the same on her tongue. Alayne understood this all too well, and took pity on Lady Waynwood – for the most part. There were moments where she treated Alayne as one would a bastard child, and the girl knew it was because the lady presumed her to secretly be one.

"Do you enjoy riding, Alayne?" The lady asked, shivering under her furs as they walked the small garden of the Eyrie.

"I haven't ridden much since… since I reached a certain age." It was no secret among those with any brains that horseback riding could tear a woman's maidenhead. It seemed a better thing to allude to, rather than saying she hadn't been riding because she had been a pet at King's Landing for quite some time. "But I did enjoy it when I was younger. My father made sure I learned at a young age."

"Your father truly cares for you, all the trouble he's gone through to arrange this coupling." Images of her true father, her beloved Stark father, ran through her mind. But as she stepped onto a hardened mound of snow, she let the image be crushed along with it. Lord Baelish was her father now, as far as anyone need be concerned.

"Yes, Father is a very kind man." The woman looked at her, studying her face. Innocence, Alayne was a model of pure innocence. She assumed that a good daughter, a pure daughter, would know nothing of her father's side ventures and betrayals. Lady Waynwood would see nothing in Alayne's face that suggested otherwise, because her life depended on it. "Do you not agree?"

"Oh, no, of course I agree! Littlefinger – ah – Lord Baelish is definitely a man who knows what he is doing." Lady Waynwood's cautious words were said in a false tone of accuracy, as though she had any idea what she was doing. Alayne wanted to laugh, but she couldn't. These people would be ruined in King's Landing – absolutely ruined.

"Do you know when Harrold is coming?" Questioned Alayne, genuine curiosity painting her features.

"Call him Harry, dear, he truly prefers that – and his band was right behind ours. Hopefully any moment now, but you know how the Lords get when there is hunting to be done." The woman chuckled, shaking her head slightly as though fondly remembering something. "I know surely he will be here tonight! Your father is holding a ball for everyone in the surrounding areas, you lucky duckling, you. What is your dress like?"

"I don't know, actually." Alayne admitted, and the lady looked at her in sincere surprise. Stupid girl. A young woman who was meeting her betrothed for the first time would absolutely know what her dress looked like. A silly girl with no responsibilities other than pleasing her future husband would absolutely care about such stupid things. Alayne stammered. "I… I mean… I couldn't choose anything, I was so nervous… I asked them to surprise me with the colors so as to not allow me time to dwell on whether or not I had made the right decision. I was… terribly… I AM… terribly nervous."

"Ah, of course, child. Well, I have wonderful news for you – you are marrying into a great family. But I'm sure they've been telling you that all week. He is a great man, you see. He will never… he will never harm you, like some women's husbands might." The lady sat on a bench and invited Alayne to sit beside her. She gestured for the servants that were following them to skitter off before she continued, wiping a snowflake from her cheek. "I had a first husband you know – some would say that it is such a sad thing, to be widowed so young – but my husband was truly a terror. And I mean that in every way. I wouldn't scare such a fragile little thing like you with the details but… those years of my life were very hard ones…"

Lady Waynwood seemed to drift off, and for the first time Alayne felt as though she could see the young woman that once was. Perhaps not unlike Sansa… someone thrown into a bad situation, but this woman had to endure an actual marriage. The way the lady was staring off into the sky made Alayne feel as though it must have been a truly horrific ordeal. Maybe these people weren't so different from her after all – maybe they were all hiding their own secrets as well.

Being so bold as to take a lock of Lady Waynwood's pretty blonde hair in her hands, Alayne held it between them, ignoring the lady's look of bewilderment. It was unorthodox, she knew.

"I have been told that the most beautiful of flowers bloom within the breezes of adversity." Alayne said, studying the woman's hair. It truly was a beautiful color considering how old the woman may have been. She smiled brightly at the girl, her cheeks flushing – who knows when the last time this older woman had blushed was? – and shook her head again, clicking her tongue.

"You truly are Lord Baelish's daughter."

"Slick with words, you mean." Alayne stated, the woman once again surprised at the girl's boldness. Alayne hoped that Lady Waynwood would respect her blunt honesty, and as she leaned back to regard the girl, it seemed she may have been right.

"You are a smart little bird, aren't you?" Commented the woman. Alayne smiled.

"Only as smart as he has allowed me to be."

"It's such a royal color." Alayne observed, turning this way and that in front of her mirror. Her handmaidens frenzied around her, preparing her dress and her hair. The dress was a deep, royal purple – giving her the appearance of someone important and rich. Each end of fabric was lined with a soft white lining that gave the dress a more youthful look, but the cut of it was quite immodest. Her bossom was pressed tightly upwards, and although she was not quite yet done growing in that area, it seemed too much to her already. The bodice was tightfitting around her waist, giving out at her hips and flowing down her like flower petals. She liked the dress, but knew that Baelish had designed it and despised the idea.

"You look wonderful, Lady Alayne." Of course her servants would have to say such a thing, those in service to others always said whatever they felt they were supposed to. Peeking out her balcony windows, she could see the ballroom lit up – people talking, drinking, and so on. The music would not start until Lord Baelish arrived, and then Alayne would get her first meeting with Harrold.

"Are you sure you want your hair down like this, my lady? Most women your age – "

"I don't need you to remind me what most women my age do. I want it down and curled as it is." Just as Margaery had worn hers, so would Alayne on this night. She remembered how wonderful the girl had looked, and how new age.

A knock on the door sent one of the girls to open it for, naturally, Lord Baelish. He smiled at Alayne in the mirror. "Is my beautiful daughter ready, then?"

"Yes, Lord Protector, does she not look wonderful?" One of the maids had been gushing over Alayne's dress all evening, eyeing it with envy.

"Indeed she does. Will you excuse us, now, I need to discuss matters of a private nature with my daughter."

They obliged, scurrying this way and that to collect their tools of the trade before closing the door behind them. Alayne watched as Baelish slowly stepped towards her, taking in the shape of her in the dress he had made to be worn only by her. He wondered what it must be like for that man, seeing a doll dressed up so prettily, and knowing that you will have to watch another man play with it. The thought made her smile, which Baelish noticed immediately.

"Something amuse you, my lovely little dove?" He asked, standing directly in front of her, letting his eyes move over her hair.

"Just that everyone is so enjoying this except for me… I have to pretend all night while everyone else can be careless."

"It is not as bad as you think. You will be tired easily, from all the dancing, and can retire early. A lady never stays the entire time."

"Will you?" Alayne questioned, noting his mainly black attire. His under shirt was a dark purple that matched her dress perfectly, and on his hand she saw a small purple ring of the same shade. Never a detail overlooked.


	3. Chapter 3

Alayne clutched tightly to Baelish's arm, surprised at the amount of people that had arrived. It was certainly nowhere near the size of an affair at King's Landing, but it was still a multitude of people that she had no idea how to handle. The Lord Protector laid a reassuring hand on hers as it was nestled into the crook of her arm. They were descending the stairs towards the crowd of onlookers who were talking amongst themselves, surely commenting on how Alayne looked nothing like her father. None of them would dare mention that to Baelish, however.

"Yes, yes," Twittered Lady Waynwood as they reached the landing. "Isn't she marvelous then, Harry?"

The young man offered Alayne a smile, which she returned. His hair was on the darker side of blonde, a clean shaven face and a somewhat stocky build. He was tall and muscular and his smile was gentle and kind. Alayne wanted so fiercely to find herself loving this man already, but she just didn't feel it yet. She felt fear. Another man that would try and place her in his bed. Another man to try and make her his own.

"It is so nice to finally meet you, Harrold – Harry," corrected Alayne with a slight smile, noting a look from Lady Waynwood. "The Lady Waynwood has talked about you at length, and I have heard many great things from all of those in your extended family."

"They were true to call you beautiful, Alayne, I am happy to be here." It was so awkward and uncomfortable, the way two people had to meet at this age. Lady Waynwood began to say something but it was lost in a sudden uproar of music, as the band began to play. Harry offered Alayne his arm, who hesitated only for a moment before Baelish pushed her towards him. "I'll take good care of her." Winked Harry to Baelish, who smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. Alayne looked back at him, wishing for a moment of humanity in Baelish – you could save me from this, just save me… - but of course, he was as unreadable as ever.

"Your father has put on quite a festival," said Harry, holding Alayne delicately at the waist so as to not overstep her boundaries. She was thankful for this, and put her hand in his as he began to dance.

"Yes, he has a way with these things." Admitted Alayne, attempting to keep her toes from being stepped on. Although kind, Harry was not the most coordinated of fellows. He seemed to know it, too, because he stared at his feet more often than not. "Do you like the Eyrie?"

"I… uh, yes, yes, it is quite… different. Secure." Harry stammered, he went on to mention his own home regions, but Alayne was looking around the room. Men and women she had – thankfully – never seen before were all around them. Some dancing, some talking, and almost all of them with a glass of wine in their hands. Wine clouds the mind, Baelish would say. No doubt he was the one keeping all of their glasses full.

"That color of purple is very striking." Commented the young man, bringing her from her thoughts.

"Oh… yes, well I… my father, wanted me to feel very prominent, I suppose."

"Everyone says that he is such a smart man, even those who do not like him." Harry bit his tongue, she saw, as he said the last thing, but Alayne only laughed.

"Oh yes, there are many people who don't like father, but I think it's all just… silly. What he does is his business, but everyone else is truly out there doing nearly the exact same things. The only difference is that my father is better at it, and more forthcoming." Stated Alayne, almost daring poor Harry to counter. He opened his mouth, but considered whatever it was he would say to be unwise, and closed it again. They danced in silence for a moment more. The song was coming to an end.

"You're very handsome." Harry was taken aback by her comment, and she shyly looked away from him into the crowd. Baelish was there, seemingly in an intense conversation with one Lord Beltha, who controlled the provisions detail to the west. His thumb rubbed against the lip of his glass as he listened to Beltha. The movement was almost hypnotic to her, and she nearly missed Harry clearing his throat awkwardly.

"You are as well – I mean, ah… beautiful, of course. Your hair color is so… dark." A man of many colored words, Alayne couldn't help but smile at his simplicity.

"Let's hope I do not get my father's gray!" They both laughed, and as the song came to an end, Lady Waynwood was right at his shoulder. She whisked him away, no doubt hoping to pry into his mind to see what he thought of the mysterious Alayne Stone. He gave her an apologetic wave before hurrying off with his nosey matron.

Deciding she needed something to cool her palate, Alayne made her way over to the long table full of food and drink. A servant quickly served her a glass of wine, though she rarely drank such things. Pushing her hair away from her face, she took a timid sip, followed by a hearty swig that left her crinkling her nose at the taste of it. Wine. People will ignore the taste for the effects.

Not ready to be anyone's dance partner just yet, Alayne stuck to the outside of the crowds – moving against the walls, as the servants did. She listened to conversations, heard names she didn't recognize and names she did. People discussed King's Landing, rumors they had heard about Lord Tyrion and Lord Tywin, as well as whatever else came to mind. Alayne wondered what it must be like to be generally unaffected by the constant murders that were taking place – most of them within her own secret family. Her mind drifted to Cersei, and how she had taken to wine much more lately, and what that could suggest about her mental state. Not that Alayne cared if that mad eyed woman lived or died, but she did hope that when Cersei's time did come… it was terrible, and torturous.

Lord Baelish was dancing with the young widow who had called out to him at the dinner the other day. He moved with ease, a sly smile on his face, no doubt telling her all sorts of things that she wanted to hear. There was no doubt in Alayne's mind that someday she would be just as good with the art of deception as he was. She had convinced her aunt Lysa that nothing was going on between her and Lord Baelish when she was already very aware that he had feelings for her. Maybe she wasn't on his level yet… but she would be.

A few more walks around the crowd had her feeling quite nicely, as did her now empty glass of wine. She entered a group that held mostly younger folk and introduced herself – which, as they all knew, was entirely unnecessary, seeing as how they had all watched her descend the stairs at a painstakingly slow pace. They were the sons and daughters of lord this and lady that, but for once, Alayne only needed to remember their first names.

"I just love your dress, Alayne," said a girl with reddish hair, Rose. Fitting, though she was a plain looking girl.

"Thank you, the green of yours complements your hair perfectly," replied Alayne, painting a smile on her face. "Did any of you travel far to be here?"

"It only took me a couple of days to get here, but my father talked the whole way about politics and work so it felt like an eternity," complained Daelan, son of Lord Beltha, as he had his father's short stature and jet black hair. "But I'm sure you know all about that, being Littlefinger's daughter and all."

The way he said Littlefinger didn't sit very well with Alayne, but she decided to ignore it. "I hear things, I guess, but I mostly ignore them because I don't understand what everyone is talking about. It's all boring to me, anyway." With a shrug she dismissed the topic and dropped her empty glass of wine on one of the nearby tables.

"Alayne, would you care to share a dance?" Asked Daelan, bowing slightly and offering her his hand. Rose rustled a bit.

"But Daelan, you and I were going to dance next," she reminded him, her voice all too much of a whine. Alayne saw Lord Baelish's greyed head coming near her through the crowd and she smiled for her new friends.

"Actually, I think I should share a dance with my father, I lost him as soon as we got here!" Right on cue, he entered their little group, looking around at them as though they were nothing more than chickens at his feet. They greeted their Lord Protector, and he gave them all absent nods.

"Alayne, my dear, share a dance with your dear old father." Baelish offered his outstretched arm. With an apologetic smile to the youthful group, she followed him out of their midst. "Odd to see you talking to those so young… but then, I forget, you are still young yourself."

"Only in years, it seems. Not in experience."

"Haha, oh child, you are still young even in that." They reached the dance floor and he swept her into an ongoing dance with ease, hardly pausing between walking and coordinating steps. Baelish had one of his empty smiles on, and Alayne tried to mimic it as best she could. "So tell me… is Harry the prince charming of your dreams?"

"He is nice… and I think he is not as smart as I am, and these are both very good things, I suppose."

"That they are, dear." Leaning forward, he planted a peck on her forehead. Innocent, as far as anyone else was concerned, but the touch left a burning sensation on her skin. With all her might, Alayne held back a blush from forming on her cheeks. Get ahold of yourself. "Is that… wine I smell on your lips? Yes… yes, they are quite red from it."

Absently, Alayne licked at her lips, wondering how one glass of wine could dye her lips so easily. Baelish followed her tongue with a smile, twirling her away from him and then back again. "Silly little bird."

The dance ended then, and Baelish handed her off to another man, who quickly swept her away from him. Alayne hated when he did that – disappeared without a word, as though nothing could hold him in any place for very long. In a rush of introductions and dances, Alayne met and talked to more Lords and Ladies than she could remember having met since she first arrived at King's Landing. People began to blur into groupings of names, similar colored hair, and whether or not they stepped on her toes as they danced. She was thankful for only having indulged in one glass of wine, as if she had been any less concentrated, she surely would have not been able to gush on about her "adoring father" for so long.

By the time she thought for sure she had seen everyone at least once, Harry appeared once more to ask for another dance. Alayne threw her hands up, leading him to the table that was reserved for Baelish. They sat down together and she rubbed her aching feet under the table.

"Too much celebration for you?" Teased Harry. She gave him a weak glare before tilting her head back against the tall chair.

"Too many people. I'm not used to it."

"Ah, yes. You know, I went to King's Landing not so long ago – you would probably hate it there if you can't stand the amount of people here. That place is flooded with people. I loved it, though. Maybe I will take you there some time."

Alayne stared at the ceiling. It took everything she had not to laugh at the ignorance of this poor boy. He knew nothing of that world.

"I think I prefer our little seclusion out here," she said, noticing his hand on the table. Reaching out, Alayne let her fingers travel over his. Harry watched and surprised her by taking her hand in his and kissing the back of it. She smiled – an honest, true smile, and he gave her an honest, true smile right back.

"After we marry, I'll never make you go to parties and celebrations with people you don't like."

Alayned started, quieting her words quickly. Harry had surprised her – perhaps not so simple after all. He may not be able to form a sentence like Baelish could, but he was more receptive than she had first assumed. "That… means a lot to me, Harry."

"Lady Waynwood says that you are good with your words, that you know how to place them in the same ways that Baelish does. I don't particularly enjoy speaking with Baelish, I think he views me as an idiot. So, I ask of you, please talk to me as a human being, and I will treat you likewise."

The last few words made her fingers stall. Alayne hesitated… was it a threat? No, that was Sansa thinking. Alayne knew that he was merely asking for respect, in return for the respect he was willing to give her. She nodded in agreement and he squeezed her hand lightly. It was their first nice moment together.

"Oh aren't you two a pair?" Lady Waynwood cooed, appearing at his side. "I saw your father passing you from person to person earlier, you poor dear, you must be exhausted!"

"I am," she admitted, removing her hand from Harry's and standing up. "I think that I really must bid you all a good night, as I am an awful sourpuss in the morning if I don't get enough sleep."

"I am retiring, too, dear, too much _excitement_ in one night for me. Give your father my best, but I simply must excuse myself." She looked at Harry, expectant. "A lady needs an escort, you know."

"Of course, my lady," laughed Harry. He leaned towards Alayne and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. She savored it, for whatever it was worth, and watched as he and Lady Waynwood failed to leave without someone calling them over to speak with them. Every few steps they would be stopped by some new businessman or lady who wanted to speak with them – all laughs and good fun, of course. Their family was truly loved.

"Do you like them?" A husky voice behind her asked. Alayne knew it was Baelish before she even smelled the mint and wine. He was standing behind her, so close that she could feel his breath on her neck.

"Who doesn't prefer a kitten to a lion?" Was Alayne's only reply. It saddened her to know that Baelish may hurt them, or even kill them in the end, to get whatever it was that he wanted in the long run. Without listening to whatever it was he said next, she headed for a corridor and disappeared down it. This was an easy game until she stopped and considered that there were other people – real, soulful people with hopes and dreams – tied up in a scheme that not even she knew the outcome of. Putting on a mask was hard enough – why did their family have to be such good people?

The castle was dark and looming. The servants and maids were all taking care of the guests in the ballroom. Alayne began to ascend a dimly lit staircase when she heard footsteps behind her. One glance back let her know that Baelish was right on her heels, but she didn't want to play his games. She didn't want to have him call her a foolish girl. A silly little bird. Alayne just couldn't take it, not tonight.

Her rather full dress kept her from ascending as quickly as she would have liked, and Baelish caught up with her as soon as she reached the top of the stairs. His hand darted out to grab her arm, but she wrenched it free.

"Leave me be, Lord Baelish!"

"Alayne, stop."

Ignoring him completely, she kicked off her shoes, hiked up her dress and ran as fast as she could for her room. Baelish was faster though – fast behind her, he clawed at her shoulder and whipped her around. It happened so suddenly that she teetered and began to fall, but he pushed her against the wall instead. Alayne tried to escape, but he placed his arms on either side of her, breathing heavy and looking at her with his dark eyes. The dimly lit hallway made him look fiercer than ever.

"What is wrong with you, child, do you want them to know something is not as it seems?" He spit out. Alayne felt tears stinging her eyes, but she blinked them away.

"It isn't as easy for me as it is for you, Lord Baelish! These people are nice, they don't deserve… whatever it is you plan to do to them. It's not right – It's not right! I cannot help you do –" Her words held short as he placed a firm hand over her mouth. Tears flowed freely as she stared at Baelish in fear, his eyes intense and accusing. When he saw the look in her eyes, however, his hand relaxed before finally letting her go. Calmed, she let out a struggled sigh.

Bowing his head, Baelish seemed to be in deep thought. He removed his arms from her sides and looked at her in the pitying way she hated.

"I don't plan on doing anything to these people, Sansa." Taking her hands in his, he kisses the back of them as Harry had done. "Your marriage to Harry is important for my progression as well as yours. Killing people is not the only business I deal in. I have told you many times, girl, always keep your foes confused. And why do I tell you that?"

"Because…" she sniffled. "Because then they'll never know what you'll do next."

"Yes! Yes, yes, silly girl. Do you really fear me so?" Baelish's eyes searched hers, as though hoping for a certain answer. Sansa couldn't give him one. She didn't know the answer herself.

"Promise me that you won't kill Harry."

"Ah yes," he straightened slightly, looking her over. "I saw you two talking, holding hands… did you enjoy his little kiss?"

"He is… just… a good person, Lord Baelish, please." She begged, hoping to find comfort in saving at least one person in all of this.

"My sweetling," he mused, brushing a hand through her hair before pulling her close to him. Her heart raced as she felt his form through the soft fabric of her dress. Keeping one hand on her cheek, he bent his forehead to hers. "I will spare him… if you call me Petyr from now on when we are in private."

"I… yes," stumbled Sansa. "Petyr."

Before she could even finish, his mouth was on hers – hot and hungry. There was no gentle questioning in this kiss, only hot and wanton need. Her body shuddered as he moved his hand from her cheek to the back of her head – entwining itself in her hair to deepen the kiss. Sansa accepted, pressing her body against his, feeling herself almost melt against him. It was all she had wanted since that night in the library.

Breaking the kiss, Baelish licked his lips and looked in her eyes, still holding her so close. "Do you have _any_ idea how beautiful you look in that dress? Every man here who danced with you tonight knew that he was the luckiest in the room when he held your hand."

Another kiss, gentler than the first, his hand moving to the small of her back. Sansa was hot – hotter than she'd ever been – and her smallclothes were victims of it all. Baelish – Petyr… had never held her like this. Her body ached for more, and she wrapped her arms around him, pressing him closer to her – a surprise to the both of them. They could both feel the heat between them growing, and it was he who broke away.

Unpealing her arms from around him, Petyr took a few steps away, both of them breathing heavily. He stared at her bodice, no doubt watching her breasts rise and fall with each breath – perhaps even wanting to disrobe her right there. Sansa knew that she would not have protested, although she knew it wasn't right. There was just something about Petyr – something about his cunning and charm – that had her by the throat.

He brushed her cheek with a gentle hand. "Goodnight, sweetling."

And he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Petyr was gone the next day, and Alayne was better for it. Sansa may have been slightly put off, a bit confused, and completely frustrated, but Alayne enjoyed the time to herself and Harry. Their small courtship was growing in accordance to plan, and she had to admit, she quite enjoyed his earnest nature.

"Tell me, Alayne, what was your mother like?" Harry asked her, one afternoon when the sun had peeked through the clouds and melted a bit of the snow in the gardens. She traced a few shapes in the snow as she considered her answer. Lady Waynwood hovered in the distance – their constant chaperone.

"My mother was a great woman. She was a virtuous person – one that many people regarded so highly, but none more than… my father." Alayne looked around, almost hoping to see Lord Baelish standing there, taking in her story. But alas, he was still away. Biting her lip slightly to bring her thoughts back to the gardens, she continued. "There were things about her that made her stand out from any other woman. She was smart, you know. Thoughtful and perceptive. I've met many women who were pleased with letting their husbands handle all matters of the family business, but she was always active in the affairs of our household. She… I hope to be half of the woman she is, one day."

"It's nice to hear you talk of her – your face changes when you do. You look less calculating and more… nostalgic. It suits you." Harry stood from the bench that were sitting on and paced before her a bit. "My mother may have been the type that you are describing… she was very beautiful, and I think that it got to her head a lot. People… are always making remarks, you know. Under their breath. Comments on my own intellect in comparison to hers. But I remember how kind she was. She would do anything for me, to ensure that I was happy… what with the two bastards before me… ah, well, not that it is of any concern now. Soon, we will be married, and I will take the place that my father once held."

He looked at her, standing before her so as to block out the sun. "I feel quite certain that someday I shall love you the way Lord Baelish loved your mother, Alayne."

With a smile, she bowed her head. "That would be… a sight to see, for sure, Harry. Perhaps you will."

"I can't wait to show you what it's like in the east. It is rarely covered with such… snow. You probably aren't used to it either, having been from the south, originally."

"Ah, no, it is… it is rather unsettling, to be so cold so often." Agreed Alayne, watching as the sun was effectively blocked out by a thick cloud that seemed to stretch over the entirety of the sky. Standing, Alayne offered Harry a smile. "Should we head back inside, then? I believe some tea would warm us up quite nicely."

"You always have the best ideas," he said, offering her his arm and leading them inside. She looked back at the area they had been roaming in, thinking of her first kiss with Petyr. It had occurred right there, in that garden. And here she was, being pushed by Petyr into another man's arms. Any other silly little girl's head might be spinning, but Alayne felt that she was finally getting a hold on what was happening in her life.

"I trust you two have been enjoying your leisure time together lately," Lady Waynwood chided playfully. It was just the two of them, in a small sitting room with a roaring fire. Alayne sipped her wine and nodded gently.

"Harry is a wonderful creature, my lady. So kind and honest."

"Good natured, that one," agreed Lady Waynwood. "Though I wish your father were here to see how well you two were getting along – it doesn't always happen this way, you know! Sometimes when the two meet, they can't stand each other. What with the two always being so young, you see… ah, but we all find our way, in the end."

Lady Waynwood was prone to lose her thoughts a bit when she drank. Typically, Alayne wasn't left alone with her, however the men were currently discussing heated matters of politics that were simply too "graphic" for the likes of a woman's delicate ears. She thought it was a ridiculous notion – an old timed notion, that wouldn't have held up in King's Landing – not as long as Cersei held any sort of power. Still, it was nice to enjoy a small glass of wine with Lady Waynwood, who was nearly a tankard of wine herself.

"You know, the widow Harsen? Lady Harsen… ah, with the pale brown hair?" Alayne searched her memory, seeing a muddled figure of a woman – she couldn't quite remember her face, but she did remember something about her. What was it? "Well – and don't tell your father I told you, dear child, but that lady is actually thinking of trying to seduce your dear father!"

A squeal of laughter erupted behind her lips – as though it were the funniest joke any fool could tell. Alayne was surprised, and it showed on her face, for Lady Waynwood giggled even more. She thought of Lysa's recent death. "But what of his mourning period?"

"Oh, I don't think he even knows she is interested, yet! Not that it would surprise me if he did, that man is known for being a snake – ah, I mean –" she stumbled around her words, trying hard to find a way to warm the chilled look on the Lord Protector's only daughter's face. When she could find none, she sat in silence and stared at her wine. Alayne cleared her throat.

"It's true. Lord Baelish is known for doing a great many terrible things. I know that you all view him seemingly working with the Lannisters as a great betrayal, but Lady Waynwood – I implore you, try and understand – nothing in King's Landing is as simple as it is here. There is nothing about that place that is easy on those who inhabit it, and my father… my father survived it, and that is really all that should matter. And now he is here! With all of you! Surely, that says something."

"It is true, we really don't know our Lord Baelish… but it is obvious that he loves you, and the fact that he had a daughter that none of us knew about, that he clearly cares for so deeply… clearly it shows us that there is a lot more to him than what would first be, ah… presumed." Lady Waynwood gave Alayne a smile, her eyes clearly getting heavy. "For what it's worth… I am very glad, Alayne, dear, to see how happy you make my dear Harry. I worried at first, as I'm sure you noticed… but now… now I think I may put my worries to… rest."

"Nothing to worry about, dear mother." Alayne assured her, taking the woman's glass from her hands as her head dipped and gave way to sleep. She set the glass on the table between them and called for a few servants to help the poor woman to her quarters. As they helped her drunk, mumbling form to her feet and took her away, Alayne had a moment to consider the fire that had been roaring before them. It was a curious thing, the lives of the people in the "ordinary" world. They didn't have to care about how they spoke, for fear of prying ears. Everything here was so much simpler. She found that she was beginning to love it. Without Petyr here, there was no one to whisper rules of the game in her ear, to tell her how she should think or behave. All of them were falling into a pattern lately that was like pieces of a puzzle; they fit perfectly together. For once, she didn't miss Petyr Baelish lurking the halls.

"Well, I just love white daisies, Mara."

"Nonsense, Sarah, those are just too plain for the girl."

"White lilies then? Delicate yet still… something more."

"What about red roses?" Suggested Mara Harsen, laughing obnoxiously at the look of deep offense on Sarah Waynwood's face. "Oh, right, right… we need white for innocence! That is the theme here, isn't it?" She winked at Alayne, who only furrowed her brow.

"What do you think, Alayne? What would you prefer?" Alayne looked at all of the floral arrangements before her, but she honestly couldn't care this way or that. It amused her that they assumed she had any idea of what she wanted – because pairings weren't made by the people who were being paired. Harry's mentors had spoken with Alayne's mentors, bonds had been considered, possible advantages in future wars and crop provisions had all been thoroughly detailed. It had nothing to do with Harry and Alayne, and yet they were right in the middle of it. So who gives a damn what flowers she chose?

"I like gardenias," said Alayne, plucking a flower from one of the bouquets and fastening it in her hair. "They are like an opened rose, don't you think?"

The women chirped in agreement, going on about how great of a contrast the white flower was against her dark hair. Mara began to fiddle with Alayne's hair, commenting on how great it would be to braid baby's breath throughout it. A good omen, too, she had said, giving Alayne a sly grin. Lady Waynwood nodded, a splendid idea.

"Where is Harry?" Alayne asked a bit later, when they were enjoying their tea and lemon tarts. She hadn't been enjoying them as much lately. They still tasted good, but to indulge in them would to become a weak Sansa again, and Alayne was more disciplined.

"They're all out hunting, I'm sure." It had been two days alone with the women of the Eyrie, and Alayne was beginning to lose her mind. Without other parties here to distract them, they only had eyes for her, and she was running out of steam. "Although they haven't been gone nearly as long as the Lord Protector has."

Looking at widow Harsen, Alayne ran a finger around her tea cup, as she had seen Petyr do. She considered the widow's features. Mara had pale brown hair, like a field mouse, and sharp features. Her nose, although not too big, was quite pointed - as was her chin. Blue eyes sat in a heart shaped face, with soft lips and high cheekbones. Alayne didn't find her unappealing, and she assumed that the woman was a young widow. Still, she wasn't quite sure how she felt about this woman pursuing Lord Baelish.

"I heard a rumor on the winds, Mara Harsen," said Alayne, keeping her tone leveled and easy, as Petyr would have. Lady Waynwood started, giving her tea a heavy gulp and looking at the young woman warily.

"What would that be?" Mara asked, picking at her tarts. Alayne believed that she was a clever woman, but there was simply no chance of her being clever enough.

"I heard," Alayne began, leaning in close to them and dropping her voice to a flirtatious whisper. "That you have a certain… interest, in my father."

"Oh, Alayne, really, you mustn't listen to such rumors," laughed Sarah Waynwood awkwardly, holding her tea cup a touch too tightly in her hands. Mara smiled at her, giving a soft sigh.

"Well, I can't say I remember a time when it has ever been a daughter's place to question what her father does in his private life."

Unable to resist the full force of a harsh, succinct laugh – Alayne gave an incredulous "Ha!" to Mara's response. Lady Waynwood gaped at the widow, scarcely able to process the disrespect, and began pushing words out of her mouth to try and cool the situation before it heated. Mara gave Alayne a sweet smile and somewhat shrugged, as though it hadn't occurred to her that her comments would be offensive. Sarah continued on and on about duty and responsibility, and an entire bundle of other things that had nothing to do with the matter at hand.

"Of course little Alayne doesn't like the idea of Lord Baelish with another woman," said Mara, her tone suddenly motherly. Reaching out one of her pale, skinny hands, she laid it on top of Alayne's. "No one will ever replace your mother, will they, dear?"

With a patience she didn't truly possess, Alayne rolled the tea in her mouth over her tongue. She mulled it this way and that, until the heat left it and it became sour. The tang of it reminded her of who she was, and of what she was doing here – but it also reminded her that she had seen women like Mara before, and had been assaulted by them. No, this time… this time she would keep the upper hand.

"You're right, you never could replace my mother." It was an innocent enough tone, but the words were heavy with meaning. "But I suppose we can't live in the past, right?"

"Absolutely!" Agreed Lady Waynwood hurriedly, turning at the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall. Laughter and cheerful voices carried down to them – they had returned from their brief hunt. Without gracing Mara with a second look, Alayne took to the hallway. Harry grinned proudly, holding up a white fox in his hands. It was bloodied and dead, but she knew that he saw this as a great victory, and returned his smile.

"It's good luck, you know!" He said, putting the dead fox all too close to her face and causing her to rear back a bit. "It will make a great wedding gift for my bride."

Standing on the top of her toes, Alayne planted a kiss on his cheek – thanking him for the, albeit bloodied, sentiment. Lady Waynwood gushed at them. "Already so enamored with one another!"

Harry put an arm around her waist, a bit too familiarly, and hugged her to him – all smiles. The smell of the hunt was still on him, but Alayne smiled all the same. It was easy to share a good mood with someone so sincere. Lady Waynwood would probably say that they were the picture of young romance.

But as Harry turned to debate with his fellow hunters about which of them got the greatest kill, Alayne's eyes fell to a gray haired figure against the wall. His arms were at his waist, as they always were, with his hands together and his thumbs steepled. There was a small smile upon his lips, and his beard was as cleanly trimmed as it had been the day that he left. She knew that she wasn't doing anything wrong, but she still pulled away from Harry.

"Father, you have returned to us." The cheer that she had hoped to put in her voice did not reach its way into her tone, and she faltered as she walked towards him to give him a daughterly kiss on the cheek.

"How were your travels, Lord Baelish?" Asked Mara, hovering nearby.

"Ah, clearly not as fruitful as those of these young men… we shall surely have a feast tonight." Baelish smiled, tucking Alayne's hand into the crook of his arm. "I've had a long journey, and I think perhaps we all should take a time of rest and refreshment before we sit down at the proper table. Will you walk with me, dear daughter?"

"I – yes, of course." With a smile goodbye to the others, who were already scurrying off into their own little groups to wash, change, and perhaps take a nap before dinner, Alayne walked towards their quarters.

Baelish was silent, which she did not enjoy. It either meant that he was thinking, or that he was trying to leave her unsettled. Both options were not very favorable for her.

"Where did you go?"

"Oh, here and there," he said, his voice unreadable as ever. She wondered if it had upset him seeing her so close to Harry, or if it was exactly what he had wanted. "What have you been keeping with?"

"Well, Lady Waynwood and I – and Mara, of course – have been thinking of things for the wedding. Flowers, decorations, food, you know, all those natural things," Alayne was rushing through her words. She bit her tongue before she continued. "And Harry and I have… been spending quite a lot of time together."

"Yes, I saw the way you two held each other. Love really is the finest torture."

"I wouldn't call it love, Lord Baelish." They rounded the corridor where both of their rooms were. Hers at the front, and his at the very back. She tried to think of something to say before he reached his solar, but she truly had no words. For some reason, Alayne was hoping that he would never return. That he would leave her to her fairytales.

When they reached the door to her room, he merely tugged her along further down the hall with him. Alayne's heart raced. So, he was angry with her. Having no idea what fate could await her at the end of that hallway, her mind raced with the worst of thoughts. Baelish was never an easy read, and today he seemed cold against her – as though his journey had changed his mind about her. She wondered if the end of her happiness would be this day – was this the day it all went away.

He opened the door to his library with a flourish and pushed her inside. As he barred the door, Alayne saw that his desk had been cleared, and there were different vials of different things on it, as well as a handful of goblets. Baelish instructed her to sit, and she obliged. He poured them both a glass of wine and he began to tell her of the scenery he had observed on his travels. There were mentions of purple fields, tall mountains, and poor peasants, but Alayne was certain that there was more to what was going on than what he was saying.

Sipping her wine as instructed, she listened to his stories, responded when necessary, and watched him as he walked around the room. He was walking circles around her, droning on and on with the stories. It was boring her, and she set down her glass to rub the weariness from her eyes. A sharp "slam!" gave her a shock, and she shot out of her chair, turning to face him. He had slammed his hand down on the table so fiercely that her glass had fallen over.

"Who am I?"

"I… I… Lord Baelish, you –" Alayne stammered.

"No. Who. Am. I?" He demanded. She looked at him with imploring eyes, clearly not understanding the question. With a growl, he set down his glass and came around to grab her by her shoulders. "Who am I? Your friend, or your enemy?"

"You… I… Lord Baelish, I don't… I don't know." Honesty in its purest form. Baelish relaxed, loosening his grip on her shoulders a bit as he nodded.

"Exactly. You don't know. So why, dearest girl, would you leave your glass on a table where I could easily slip something into it?" Questioned Baelish, pointing to her overturned glass. She opened her mouth to respond, but quickly closed it again. If she had said that she knew he wouldn't drug or poison her, that would have been a lie, and they both knew it. Grinding her teeth slightly, Alayne stood in silence.

"If you wish to be as cunning as I am, child… there are more lessons that need to be taught." The truth of his statement drifted between them for a moment before he instructed her to sit down again.

Baelish set out four glasses of wine – refilling hers and calling it a control. He held four vials in his hands, explaining that he would use one for each glass, and Alayne was to observe the differences it made in the drink.

The first – Essence of Nightshade – was an odd orange color. She had heard of it before, and had known ladies in King's Landing to use it in order to calm their nerves. Explaining the dosage to her, Baelish showed that one drop was harmless, three would put the person to sleep, but ten drops would leave a man dead. This poison was one of the most preferred, because it was so common that anyone could have it in their possession. Being able to use it for more than just killing was also a great feature, as sometimes you might just want to get the guards to fall asleep, rather than kill them. Alayne noted that it gave the wine a lighter hue, and a sour smell – as though the fruit that had made the wine had been fermented a touch too long. Pleased, he continued.

The second vial held a clear liquid that looked like it could be no more than water. Tears of Lys, was a costly and rare poison. This poison was ideal in certain situations because it left almost no trace in the victim's body, making the cause of death nearly impossible to pinpoint. Baelish instructed her to place her finger into the glass, showing her that this poison just barely changed the consistency of the drink. One could only tell when observing how differently the wine dripped from their finger before, and after, the poison entered the drink. The third poison was the most obvious – a brewed batch of poinsettia leaves – which smelled the worst and killed the slowest. It was the easiest to find, the easiest to catch, and only to be used when no other options were available.

When the fourth vial was placed before her, Baelish leaned against the table and looked at her. "This one is probably the one you should be the most aware of. It is called The Strangler. It needs only half a gulp to cause its victim to begin choking – slow at first, but progressive. It causes their throat to bleed, their eyes, their nose… until they slowly choke to death."

That description was all too familiar. "Joffrey…" she whispered, images of that day flashing through her mind, clear as ever. Baelish nodded, showing her that it was impossible to find, making it the most dangerous.

"And this is why you must never let your drink out of your sight, nor accept anything from someone you do not trust. Who do you trust?"

"No one," came the weak reply, lined with sadness. It was true. She enjoyed these people so much, but she had enjoyed King's Landing as well until she watched them cut off her own father's head. With a heavy hearted sigh, Alayne squeezed her hands tightly in her lap to disrupt her internal struggle. Baelish watched her closely, as he always did.

"What makes you so sad, little bird?" He asked. She could only shake her head. "Surely you didn't think that everything would end just because you were wedded to this young man. No student of mine could ever be so foolish."

"No. You are right. I was merely enjoying the game of pretend," she said, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Do you play pretend with me, sweetling?" He knelt in front of her, bringing her chin up so that she was forced to look at him. Slowly, she shook her head. He ran his thumb across her soft lips. "Do you think you may have feelings for this young Harry?"

"I love… the idea of it all. But I know that he is merely a stepping stone. Why stop at the first when I can make it all the way to the top?"

Lord Baelish looked almost taken aback, but it was quickly replaced with a large, genuine smile. "My little dove, you are learning more than I could ever have hoped for."

Sealing his approval with a light kiss, Alayne waited for him to gather up his vials and leave before she finally let out the breath she had been holding. Was she going insane… or was everything going just the way it should? She would soon find out.


	5. Chapter 5

The Waynwoods left soon after Alayne's lesson in poisons. There was a fortnight of calm, where only she and Lord Baelish – and occasional lords of the Vale – were present in the Eyrie. It was a reprieve that she was surely in need of.

Another reprieve revealed itself to her as the time wore on. Lord Baelish no longer pressed his lips to hers, or visited her late at night. He no longer held private audiences with her, unless he was teaching her how to gauge a person's tell to see if they were lying, how to monitor checks and balances, and the like. Moreover, Sansa felt more like Alayne than ever before. Baelish was so busy with writing letters, and meeting with men who had answers he needed, that she rarely even saw him around the castle.

Occasionally, she would stand outside his library, watching him writing away on parchment with a steadfast quill. Alayne wondered what kind of words he could be scribing across those letters, and to whom they were destined. She noted his tendency to rub his middle finger and his thumb together absently as he was thinking, and how – those his features were quite sharp – there was a handsomeness to him that was unmistakable. Looking at Baelish under a different light had really changed her opinion of him, seeing him more human than she ever had before.

Alayne enjoyed her tea alone and took long walks around the Vale. She hummed as she dyed her hair in solitude, and considered how – when she was married to Ser Harrold – she may be holed up in a library writing letters to Petyr, just as he was now. The thought made her smile. Sleep came easy and mornings came early. Petyr had mentioned that the library was to her disposal, so she often plucked books from its shelves and read them in her quiet solar.

Still. Quiet. Silence. Day in and day out. One evening, after days and days of quiet resolution, the girl just couldn't take it anymore. She _was_ Sansa. Alayne could be who she was in the eyes of others, but in her own privacy, she wanted to be Sansa Stark – daughter of Catelyn and Eddard Stark. Buttoning up her night shift, Sansa considered herself in the mirror. Her features were so pale, and the darkness of her hair really made her eyes stand out against her soft, white skin. With a small smile, she crept out of her room and into the corridor.

There was no one around, there rarely was. Everyone knew how Lord Baelish valued his privacy. Still, she walked as quietly as possible towards his quarters. A dim light shined from under his shut door – no doubt still writing to someone important. Her knock was timid, but she was not as nervous as perhaps she would have previously been. Petyr had been paying her little mind, so it was easy not to consider the repercussions of coming to his door so late.

His door opened and his eyes held a question. Sansa stepped inside and let him close the door behind her. "Is there something wrong?"

"I just," she wrung her hands slightly, noticing that he was wearing a loose shirt, unbuttoned a bit, over a pair of trousers. "I wanted you to know that I know… I know that you did me a great favor, regarding aunt Lysa, and the whole… scheme of calling me your daughter. And I know that me marrying Ser Harrold is very necessary if either of us can hope for… well, anything, really. I just wanted to-to thank you, Lord Baelish. I may not understand everything at first, but I'd like to think that I _am_ learning."

Petyr seemed to consider this at length, keeping his hands together with his thumbs steepled at his waist. Sansa didn't waiver though, she waited for whatever it was he had to say in response – be it proud or chiding. He observed her for quite some time until finally he let out a sigh.

"What do you want here, Sansa?" He asked. When she looked confused, he only let out a harsh laugh. Covering the space between them in a few steps, he bunched the fabric of her night shift in his hands and shook it. "You come here in your night shift, in the middle of the night, giving me compliments and trying to flatter me… what are you really here for?"

"I… I just." Calming herself, she squared her shoulders. "You've been ignoring me and so, I… are you angry with me?"

"You told me you wanted control, sweetling." Bringing his arms out in a wide span, Sansa could tell by the look on his face that he had known ignoring her would drive her mad. He didn't look surprised, though it was obvious he wished her to believe it so. "I adore you, you can't stand it. I ignore you, you are miserable – I am a busy man, Sansa – far too busy to play these little games with you."

"I'm not playing games!" Insisted Sansa, holding her ground as he broke the space between them in a few quick strides. With a harsh hand, he gripped the soft fabric of her shift and pulled it down until it ripped. She tried to clutch it in place, but he was too strong. Moments ago she had been so self-assured, but now that she was actually before him – with his hands threatening an intimate knowledge of her – Sansa felt more like a child than ever before.

"You don't even believe that." His words were like ice against her neck as he kissed her there. She tried to push him away, causing him to let out a harsh laugh. Biting her lip to keep back her tears, Sansa ripped her shift away from him. Expecting him to look as heated and disgruntled as she was, there was surprise within her when she saw that he was perfectly composed.

But didn't he have a point? She knew that she was young, and not exactly the most informed on the sexual world. Petyr, however, had made a business out of the art of seduction and sexual healing. Was she foolish enough to think that she could have come here to ruffle his feathers? Rubbing her palms together nervously, Sansa banished the thoughts from her head.

"I just know," Sansa began, adjusting her shift so that the bit of skin that had been revealed as covered once more. "I just know that I can't learn anything with you ignoring me. And… and you've brought me here, and I have no one else, Petyr!"

With seemingly little interest in what she was saying, Petyr walked back to his desk. He leaned forward, splaying his hands across the desk. Absentmindedly, he tapped his fingers against the wood. Sansa wondered what could possibly be running through his calculating machine of a mind. His back was to her, so she couldn't see his face, but she imagined it was his usual calm and collected profile. Picking up a glass of wine in one hand, he lightly sipped the contents. She was getting frustrated by the silence. Was he trying to break her?

"Do you want things to go back to the way they were, then?" He asked. It was an innocent enough question. Sansa, who had demanded she couldn't stand what he was doing… was now in his room in the middle of the night, promising that she understood. What had changed since then? Perhaps it was simply the absence of his touch that made her change her mind. She hadn't seen Harry since he left, so he wasn't influencing her decision at all. Clicking her tongue silently, Sansa cursed herself for still being a silly little girl. After all this time, did she still really not know what she wanted?

"Yes." A weak admission, but an honest one. She had half expected him to kiss her again, but he seemed disinterested – staring intently at the papers before him. Moments of silence passed, and it was obvious that he wanted her to leave.

With a faltered breathing, Sansa blinked away her shame and made her leave. The cold of the metal against her hand reminded her of the severity of her situation. Did she really have time for the romantic notions of a young girl? Why couldn't life be simple again?

"Sansa," Petyr called, as she was inches out the door. She looked back to him. He never faced her, but kept his eyes forward, as though reading something on the wall. "No matter what I teach you, or how much you learn… you will _never_ have control. Not in this."

A dozen bricks seemed to be weighing her down. Her heart had stopped, and after a few moments it blasted against her chest – demanding air. She was suspended in that moment with the heaviness of his words with her mouth agape like a brainless fish. It took every ounce of strength in her to move through the threshold and shut the door behind her. Only then would her body allow her to suck in the air that had been slammed out of her.

Sleep didn't come easy, but when she was finally blessed with it, the morning sun pried her eyes open most unforgivingly. Releasing a yawn that was really half groan, Sansa rubbed the sleep from her eyes. There was a dull throbbing in her temple and she could tell that the morning was going to be unkind. As she sat up in her bed, she could see that she was not alone. Petyr sat in a chair beside her bed that hadn't been there when she had fallen asleep. She wasn't unsettled by his sudden appearance, though – Lord Baelish had a way with these things.

"Do you ever sleep?" She asked. He was already dressed and shaved, looking as put together as ever, even though the morning light had just begun to appear. There was not a time she remembered him ever looking any other way, except for the previous night. He smiled at her briefly before returning his eyes to the book in his hands.

"What kind of man never sleeps?" Mused Petyr. "I've brought you more dye for your hair. You will want to dye it this morning, as Ser Harrold and his entourage will be arriving tomorrow."

"The wedding." She thought aloud, earning a mere nod from Petyr. Flinging off her covers, Sansa knew it was too late for modesty. A tub of hot water had been brought in, placed behind the cover of a wall screen. It was something, at least.

After she had double and triple checked that he couldn't see her from where he was sitting – as it was clear he had no intention of being respectful enough to leave – Sansa shed her shift and dipped into the tub. It was too hot, but she liked it. The slight burn against her skin made her feel more human. Scrubbing away any dirt and grim from her body, she began to feel a little more like Alayne with each movement.

"Do you know what is going on in King's Landing these days?" Asked Petyr, a somewhat stupid question, as he was very aware that her only tie to the outside world was himself. At her silence, he continued. "They say that Tywin Lannister is dead, and that Tyrion Lannister has fled the city."

Considering the repercussions of such things, Sansa began to work the dye through her hair. "What does this mean for King's Landing? Joffrey's brother is too young to rule with any sort of wisdom."

"Correct. So then, who will advise him now?"

"Not Cersei," said Sansa, pausing with her hands full of dye as she knelt over the tub to wash it off. His silence told her otherwise. "I… she's going to kill us all."

"Quite the contrary – or at least, that's what I choose to believe." Wrapping up her hair so as to wipe away the remainder of the dye, Sansa went about getting dressed as she listened to Petyr's reasoning. "She is frightening to you, I know – and to many others as well… but she is more like her son that she would like to admit. Joffrey's cruelty was ultimately his undoing… and Cersei, like Joffrey, has never held such power. Her safety net is gone. Tywin was a mastermind – enough of one to be cruel but still rule in a way that people followed… typically out of fear. When it came to Tyrion, however, he could never spare the rod. It seems the end to all these Lannisters will be their own doing."

"I would like that very much." Admitted Sansa, letting her hair down and moving out from behind the screen. Petyr's book was closed and in his lap. "Considering they have almost single handedly eradicated my family."

"Such crude thoughts we are having for such an early morning." Petyr commented suddenly, laying the book on her bed. She looked at herself in the mirror. Alayne stared back at her. "I will go get your servants to braid up your hair."

"Yes," Alayne agreed. "That would be best."

"So, of course, it will all take place inside because of the terrible cold outside. It may seem like it lasts forever, but really the ceremony is never _too_ long," rambled Anya Waynwood. Alayne nodded, pretending to listen, but she was mostly looking around the room. There was white everywhere. Flowers of every shade of white adorned the walls. Rich, green ribbons that were thick and soft to the touch intertwined with long, white pulls that made it took like lush grass peeking out from between layers of snow. She imagined that, were Sansa Stark facing such a wedding, it would look very similar. The thought made her smile.

"There you go, staring off into the distance again," clucked Lady Waynwood. She finished braiding the ribbons in front of her – taking Alayne's untouched ones and braiding them as well. "Are you very anxious?"

"Anxious is definitely one word for it," admitted Alayne. She thought of how her moon cycle had come and gone two weeks earlier, and how grateful she was that – in all of this – there was at least one modicum of saved embarrassment. "I am very curious how my life will change."

"Ah, that's understandable, dear. Usually the two love birds keep to themselves for a few days, but it all falls into place in no time at all."

"I hope so. I'm not used to change." A lie for Sansa, though the truth for Alayne. Her eyes wavered by the entrance to the hall. A hint of brown hair moved back and forth against laughing shoulders. Shifting slightly to get a better look, she saw Mara talking to Petyr. They leaned together, talking in hushed tones, before Mara threw back her head and laughed playfully. Alayne felt an anger grip her that she had not expected – her entire body growing hot. Ever observant Lady Waynwood followed her gaze with a sigh.

"I know that it may be hard to understand the way people move through love," began Lady Waynwood, but Alayne silenced her with a sharp shake of her head. The old woman had a quality that was grandmotherly, under all her sharp features, but it wasn't what the girl wanted.

"It just surprises me still. And he's never mentioned Mara in a personal tone."

"Sometimes parents keep things from their children in the hopes that it will spare them pain. My sons are strong men, but I think I would keep them from pain whenever possible." Anya looked to her sons, who were grouped with Harry and the other men from their area. No doubt talking about hunting, which Alayne was convinced to be the only thing that interested him other than serving as a warrior.

"My father and I have no secrets between the two of us. We share everything." Watching as he broke conversation with Mara and began walking their way, she turned back to Lady Waynwood. "But my father is much different from regular men."

"No one would deny that, I'm sure." Piped Waynwood, earning her a faux look of sternness. The woman stared down at her braiding ribbon, a small smile on her face. Petyr, with his hands clasped behind his back, joined the women, watching Waynwood as her fingers adjusted the ribbons.

"With all your years, Anya, your fingers are as nimble as ever." He complimented. She smiled, although didn't very flattered. A detail Alayne knew he chose to ignore. "Are you excited for the coming days, dear daughter? I'm sure the ladies of the area have been filling your head with sweet thoughts."

"I have heard, more than anything, actually, is that the snoring is the hardest thing to get used to. One lady – I can't remember her name, she was a blonde – told me that her husband sounds like a bear!" The three of them shared a laugh. Alayne felt her stomach rumble and put a light hand on it. "I can't wait to eat tonight – I know I'll be too nervous to do so tomorrow."

"A shame, really, considering the feast we have prepared in your honor." Petyr's smile was a wicked one, though Waynwood hardly noticed. "But we should dine soon, as we all need to be in bed early. Come on, let's sneak into the kitchen and get you something to nibble on while we wait."

"Besides," he began, leaning in towards the women and pointing behind him discreetly. "Your betrothed has been staring at you all afternoon – it may do him good to have some time away from you before he drives himself mad with lust."

"Lord _Baelish_!" Lady Waynwood huffed at his inappropriate remark, giving him a light smack on his shoulder. Gathering up her ribbons to give to the servants so that they could hang them up, she left them to their own devices. "Don't fill up on lemon tarts – you'll ruin your appetite!"

"Not likely." Alayne said to Petyr, allowing him to lead her from the room and towards the kitchens. His pace was slow, as though enjoying their somewhat solitary time together. She wanted to ask him about Mara, but she knew that he would only avoid her questions as though she had never asked them. The silence was better, anyway. They had both been talking to people and listening to their stories all day. It was a grueling thing, the annoyingly droll social inequities of people with scarcely interesting lives. At least at King's Landing they had been surrounded by people who shared a common intellect and cunning. These people were almost like animals.

"Do you know what dress you will be wearing tomorrow?" Asked Petyr. Alayne noticed that he had walked past the corridor that lead to the kitchens. She shook her head.

"I assumed you would take care of that. Was I wrong?"

"No, no… you were quite right. Would you like to see it?" Surprised at his sudden interest, Alayne agreed. He led her to one of the unused guest rooms, opening the door with a flourish. Tentatively, she stepped through the threshold. A long, emerald green dress stood in front of a large mirror. Tendrils of white trickled through the skirts, and the bodice was laced with pearls and white silk. It was beautiful, yes, but Alayne held no emotional attachment to this marriage.

"You don't look pleased, sweetling." Commented Petyr. He stepped around her, picking up the train of the dress in his hands. "I think you should see the best part."

Lifting up the skirt so that she could see the full underbelly of it, Petyr smiled as Alayne gasped in shock. In the mirror she could see the reflection of a direwolf, etched into the underskirts and hidden from view. Its head was held high, appearing to be letting out a howl that she could almost hear. Her family crest. Tears trickled down her cheeks before she even had the sense to realize she was crying. Rubbing them away with the palm of her hand, Alayne looked at the direwolf and then back to Petyr. He dropped the skirts, satisfied that she had seen enough.

"They may be unaware, but it doesn't make it any less true. Never forget who you are."

In that moment, Alayne felt the strength of both her and Sansa. Together, they would bring this world to their knees.


	6. Chapter 6

The early morning air was crisp and biting against Alayne's soft features. Her servants fussed behind her, readying her dress and lace underthings. They had complained about the cold, but she demanded that they leave the balcony door open. A roaring fire kept the room warm enough, and the sudden chilling breezes that crept their way in were enjoyable to her. Sansa may not be able to show her true form to those around her, but she would live her life in a particular way, regardless of her façade. She was born from the snow, and she would live her life reveling in the cold – the only piece of her past that hadn't been eradicated or burned to the ground.

Grey cloth whispered to the floor as she dropped her shift unceremoniously. It was beneficial that she had the handmaidens to dress her, because Alayne's head was too full with Sansa thoughts to focus on anything. But what if she hadn't had those maidens? What if Sansa had stayed Sansa, under the terrible care of an envy riddled Lysa? With such a heavy jealousy, Lysa would have likely succeeded in killing her if it wasn't for Petyr – if not selling her into slavery. And the girl was not stupid. She knew that her features were too fair for such a life, and that rape and pain would have become common themes in her life.

When they pulled her dress down around her waist, Sansa thought of her family. Both parents were dead without question, as was her brother, due to foolhardy decisions that Robb made in a wave of his own lust. Bran and Rickon were presumably dead, as was her feisty younger sister, Arya. As a keeper of the wall, her half-brother Jon Snow was as good as dead as well. Through simple arithmetic, it was clear that Sansa was the last of her blood to hold any hope of power. But something in the back of her mind told her that the Stark lineage was not as dead as most hoped.

Something within her _begged_ her to create a strong foundation – one that her siblings could stand on when they returned to light. Perhaps it was hopeful thinking, almost undoubtedly so, but the concept pleased her thoroughly. Joffrey was already dead, so she could never seek revenge on him, but Cersei was still alive and well. Her love for her children was no secret, and Sansa knew that it was where she would strike her first.

The imp, though… the dwarf that had killed his father and disappeared into the night, had been kind to her. He could have very well forced her to share his bed and been another cruel Lannister in his life, but he chose the higher path. Because of this, Sansa knew that she owed him a debt. She would repay it with his life, of that she was certain.

As the laces at her back were finally being pulled taut, she straightened her back and leveled her gaze with the mirror before her. Things were going to change. Petyr would no longer be at her side to help guide her through the social interactions that were involved in fooling the common people. She may even need to begin procuring her own dye for her hair. It was to be a time of growth.

"My lady, you are so silent and thoughtful today. Do you need us to help you with anything else?" Her servants were so timid, no doubt thinking that she was completely daft. Alayne had never bothered to learn their names or pay attention to them, and was always lost in her thoughts. Eyeing her intricately braided hair, perfectly fitted dress, and pinned white veil, she released the girls of their duties.

It wasn't long after they scurried from the room that Alayne heard a knock at her door. She knew he would be waiting for the girls to leave so that he could have a private moment with her. Petyr stepped through the threshold, his long cloak a hue of green rather than his typical grey. He didn't insult her with a false smile, but instead looked rather anxious.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"I'm alright… are you worried I'll ruin things at the last minute?"

"The thought has crossed my mind." He admitted, pacing past her. "Not for lack of intellect, however. You _have _had random strokes of humanity lately."

Their interaction in the hallway after the ball flashed across her mind, but she dismissed it quickly. "You don't need to worry," she said, toying with her skirts slightly and refusing to meet his gaze. "I have… learned my lesson in that area."

"I can see that, my composed little song bird. Are you nervous for your new life?" He closed her balcony doors. Instantly, she missed the bite of the air, but said nothing. Petyr looked at her, his eyes eating her alive with their scrutiny. She was sure he would make a remark that would kill her current strength, but he only came to stand beside her silently. They looked at one another in the mirror. "I have something for you."

"What is it?" A wary tone edging her voice, Alayne watched as he produced a silver pin from his pocket. It was in the shape of a mockingbird, and seemed to be an exact replica of the one that he always wore at his neck. His house crest? She had never thought to ask, which may have been a mistake. She was surprised when he pressed it into her hands.

"No one else has ever worn the crest of House Baelish. My father was nothing, and my mother even less, but I fought against those odds and clawed my way into power. I have no doubt that you will do the same, Sansa. It would do me a great honor… if you would wear this until your true identity is revealed."

Clutching the pin tightly so that she wouldn't have to look at it, Alayne gave a slight nod. She didn't know much of Petyr's past, only that he had been a ward of the Tully's when her mother was young and that everyone called him Littlefinger because of his family – perhaps because of their lack of money? There was no way for her to be entirely certain without asking.

"Perhaps Mara will be the next one to wear it." Suggested Alayne, tucking the pin into the folds of her dress. Slight surprise crossed his features, complemented by a smile that was too sly for words.

"I was unaware you were being so observant of my actions amidst all the chaos you've recently been facing." He observed.

"Chaos is a ladder," Alayne said icily, using his own words against him. "All I have are the tools you have armed me with."

"Then perhaps you won't need my help in the future," suggested Petyr, rubbing a thumb over her cheekbone as he stood before her. She let out a harsh laugh, jerking her head away from the fire of his touch.

"I'm not stupid, Petyr. You would only teach me just enough to carry myself, not enough to take me all the way to the top. That is the brilliance of what you do."

"If I didn't know any better, sweetling… I would say that you hated me for it."

"I do." Alayne said – calm, cool, collected. None of the other days mattered – this day was going to be the hardest one for her, and she had always known it. She was innocent, and had read so many fairytales and loved the idea of so many things, but they were all gone now. Today she had to pretend to be the girl she once was, while she married a man she knew may not survive this tryst.

When she had wed Tyrion, the whole ordeal seemed to go on for hours, but this ceremony was taking ages. It was too hot in the room, and even though the ceremony was relatively short, in truth, it still felt as though he was dragging out every word. Alayne moved through the motions, keeping a modest and bashful look on her face – occasionally shying away from Ser Harrold's glance.

Every smile was placed at all the right times, and she was so happy when the ceremony turned into the reception. Watching as a servant poured her a goblet of wine, she tested it secretly as Harry shook hands with a man who slapped him on the back in congratulations. After sipping it, she kept it in her hand – ever wary. A wedding would not be the end of _this_ Stark.

"Lady Hardyng, I am so happy for you!" Gushed Lady Waynwood, her graying hair slightly frizzed from all of the excitement in the air. Everyone was talking around Alayne, making it all a much less formal affair than Joffrey's wedding had been.

"Oh… thank you. Hardyng. I will have to get used to that, won't I?" She said with a smile. Waynwood pushed a few other women towards her, introducing them, although their names were quickly forgotten. Alayne was looking around for Petyr, who should have been seated to her left, but was nowhere to be seen.

More and more people greeted her, many of them offering her select words of wisdom on married life. Alayne was kind and charismatic, enjoying some of their words and ignoring others. Harry drank. And drank. And drank some more. By the time they were done meeting all those around them as "Harrold and Alayne Hardyng," he was quite drunk. The way he slurred his words was disgusting to her, and when he leaned in for a kiss it took all her might not to pull away.

"How lucky am I to have such a pretty wife." Harry said, slapping a wet kiss across her lips clumsily. "We will make beautiful children!"

"I hope so," she lied, giving him one of her fake smiles that she had been parading around with all night. His friends made a leering joke about their bedroom festivities that would be taking place later, and roared with laughter. Harry was quite different when he drank. The simple, soft spoken young man turned into a slurring moron. He chomped his food obnoxiously and slurped on his wine as though it were water. Everything about him in that moment disgusted her, and she knew she needed to leave him before she burst.

Mara Harsen caught up with her the moment she left her seat, linking arms with her as though the two were great friends. Alayne didn't bother putting on a front for this woman – she wanted her to know that her company was nuisance.

"Congratulations, Alayne!" Mara gushed, using her first name rather than addressing her properly by title – as she should have. "You must be so happy to finally have a husband to take care of you."

"I don't need anyone to take care of me, Mara, but yes, I am quite thrilled."

"Well, of course, your father will be so sad when you are gone." Mara hinted, pulling her away from the gatherings of people a bit and dragging her towards the balcony – where no one stood. "I may have to stay on a few days with Lady Waynwood and see to it that he adjusts comfortably."

The balcony grew nearer and nearer, and as they reached the threshold, Alayne looked around her. No one was paying them any particular interest. Ripping her arm from Mara's, she put a measurable amount of distance between them. A glare darkened her features, but Mara's smile was as sly as ever.

"What do you want, Mara? Why do you keep trying to upset me?"

"Why, whatever do you mean?" Innocence crossed her features, though it was a look that did not suit her. Mara, with her pale brown hair and her dark brown eyes, had the look of someone bitter with the world for the card's she was handed.

"Oh, spare me." Spat Alayne, throwing a hand in the air to dismiss Mara's false confusion. "Unlike my father, I'm not willing to play your stupid games. You obviously have some kind of… issue with me, so why not just say it?"

"Well, if you're going to get so worked up about it." Mara began, lightly shrugging. She peeked at the doors to make sure no one was listening in before leaning towards Alayne, her voice a near whisper. "I know your secret."

"What secret?" Shot Alayne impatiently. Her short-sightedness paid off for her, because a sudden response is exactly how someone without a secret would have responded. It occurred to her directly after, however, that the truth she had trusted was so well hidden, may have been sought out by this annoying woman.

"Don't play coy with me, girl. I've known Petyr for a long time, and he's never mentioned a daughter _or_ your darling mother."

"Lord Baelish is the least forthcoming person in Westeros. Everyone knows that." Her tone held an annoyance that she hoped made it sound like she believed the entire conversation was unnecessary. "Although I'm sure he did mention my mother, you were probably just too busy trying to stick your tongue in his ear to hear him."

Mara started, clearly shocked at Alayne's sudden effrontery. "Those are terribly immodest words for someone as soft-spoken as you usually are around everyone else."

"Well everyone else doesn't waste my time with stupid accusations. Why would he be doing this if I wasn't his daughter… seeing as how you are so wise, what is your assumption?" Alayne was furious, partly because the thought of her having this conversation after all their careful planning and plotting was ridiculous, and partly because everything about this woman infuriated her. She told herself that Mara upset her because of what she had said, not because of how obviously attracted to Petyr she was.

"I don't know. All I know is that you are going to get in my way at some point, and when you do," Mara stepped forward, cutting the space between them so that Alayne could see fully how much she meant her words. "I will make sure everyone finds out who you really are."

"Maybe he's not hiding the truth for my sake, Mara. Maybe he's hiding my identity for all of _you_." Alayne's tone was pure ice, her eyes ablaze with warning. Mara was startled, stepping back a bit and raising her hand as if to shield herself from the thought. She looked Alayne up and down as though measuring her abilities – as though she could see, just by looking at her, what was inside of her. "If you ever did say anything – to anyone, Mara – I'd come to you, first. Have you ever been someone's tortured animal, _Lady_ Harsen?"

The older woman said nothing, clutching one hand to her chest. It was obvious that Alayne had scared her, as the look in her eye suggested she was petrified. The girl wanted this, though. Mara was only the first in a long line of people who would threaten Alayne – Sansa – and this was her first test as to how she may handle such opposition. And truthfully, she thought Petyr would have been proud.

"You want my father?" It was more of a statement than a question, but Alayne had the upperhand now. Mara shifted uneasily. "Go ahead. I don't care. But you _will_ respect me – especially in _my home_. Or I will make you my slave, Mara Harsen."

As the woman gaped at her in shock, Alayne spun on her heel – leaving her alone on the balcony with a look of scared confusion. Happiness washed over the newly wedded girl's features as she passed by people who congratulated her. For Alayne, this was a happy day, and she knew she must act the part. Having vented all of her frustrations onto Mara, she felt so much lighter than before. She talked to people with ease, allowing Harry to hold her hand as he blathered on and on about hunting stories. Lady Waynwood, who had now had just a touch too much to drink, chatted continuously in her ear. Alayne didn't care. Everything had been planned out, and she knew it was all as it was supposed to be.

Finally, as if from out of thin air, Petyr appeared beside her. He gave his precious daughter a kiss on the forehead before taking his seat. She gave him a cool smile, pretending to listen intently to whatever moronic story Harry was telling his friends. But even though she turned her entire body away from him, she could still feel his presence. Lord Baelish talked to Lady Waynwood in cheerful tones. The ease with which he could do such things was remarkable, Alayne had to admit. It was as though he was so happy to see his daughter wed to someone of repute. As though these ties he was making would last throughout his lifetime.

Harry's words were becoming almost impossible to understand, so drunk had he become. Alayne looked to Lady Waynwood with a look that suggested she didn't know how to handle the situation, which made her call the room to a dull hue. Standing at her seat, Anya held a glass in her hand.

"To Harrold and Alayne Hardyng – may their marriage be fruitful and joyous!" Everyone cheered and whistled as they ushered the two of them from their seats and took them down the hall. This ritual was not one that Alayne understood or enjoyed, but she did her best to pretend that she was in a happy dream. And as they dropped them on their bed and left the doors with lewd shouts and gestures, she knew that all her childish games were over.

As Harry began to murmur sweet words and trace sloppy kisses across her cheek, Alayne couldn't help but think of Tyrion. He was a truly good man – born to a family of lions who, at every turn, tried to gobble him up. Yet, in his time of power, he bowed to her, and allowed her to hold power in the situation. Harry was an entirely different person.

He clutched at her dress, stumbling over the laces. She removed his hands and put them on his belt – a much easier piece of clothing for him to succeed in removing. He had loosened the laces enough for her to work her way out of her dress, and she laid on the bed in her shift; she stared at the ceiling while the sounds of him wrestling with his clothing echoed through the room.

Harry was a large and hairy man, amusingly enough. The heat of his body was a surprise to her. He kissed her gently and balanced himself on one arm as he looked down at her.

"I… will try to – gentle, with you," he stammered, the fermented fruits of the wine still clouding his brain. She merely nodded, fully intending to just lie there and take it. When he entered her, however, the pain was so much more severe than she had expected. Later on in her life she would learn that if a woman wasn't aroused, her body didn't produce the natural lubrication that was necessary to make the entire experience enjoyable. Now, however, she was panicking – almost sure that he was going to hurt her beyond repair. She clutched at his arms as he pushed himself deeper, grunting a bit at the effort and ignoring her cry of pain.

Alayne bit her lip, trying to silence herself, but she had never known that the pain would last so long. When he broke her maidenhead, the tears were impossible to prevent. He fell into a soft rhythm, after that – moaning briefly before removing himself from her altogether. She opened her eyes, seeing a look of embarrassment on his face.

"Uh – wine," he tried to explain, collapsing on the bed next to her. "It takes the man to his finish must faster. I'm sorry, Alayne."

His eyes closed and she felt her body shudder. "It's alright. I don't think the first time is supposed to be enjoyable… at all f-for the woman."

Harry said nothing. His only response was a loud snore that echoed through the room. She bit her lip in anger, shakily getting off the bed and moving to the tub of water that someone had nicely left for her. There was much less blood than she expected, but his seed trickled down her legs in a foreign way. The smell of it sickened her and she washed it away, quickly. Slipping on her shift, Alayne tried to ignore the feel of her heartbeat in her sex. It pounded with every wave of pain that she felt within her, the raw feel of her womanhood making her want to cry.

Instead, she got in bed next to the snoring Harry, pulling the blankets over her shoulders, and found solace in sleep.


	7. Petyr

_To turn the pages of my life and assume my feelings would be a great injustice to the intricate man that lives within me._

Placing his pen down, Petyr looked out the window of the guest room where he was currently staying. Gulltown looked meager on that day, the sea hardly blessing the shore with the kiss of its waves. What it looked like mattered little to Petyr. He was there for business. His entire life was nothing but business. Someone near a title may want help in attaining that title through "unfortunate mishaps," and Petyr would have to think through how it affected everyone around them. Was killing the current lord enough, and was that lord involved in something political that needed to be seen through to the end? If the person in question was vying for his title in an obvious way, then Petyr couldn't help him. He never involved himself in ugly cons. No, Petyr Baelish was a man with strong constitutions and high standards. Other people valued their king, their gods, or their family. He only valued himself and the furthering of his own power and wealth.

Some could say that this made him a bad man, but he cared little. Those who thought him cruel were only too unaware of the ways of the world. To be ignorant of the inner workings of the life around them was a miserable way to live, whether they were aware of it or not. A long time ago, he decided to never live his life as nothing. As his lineage had.

A new lineage is what he would create. A new powerhouse. Tywin Lanniser was dead, and Cersei was slowly running King's Landing into the ground. Power wasn't a good trait for her. She carried it clumsily, as though the weight of it were too much for her delicate arms. A prideful woman, Cersei would never admit to her struggle, and Petyr knew that it would be her own downfall. Power was something that one needed to learn, gradually, how to control. It was something that woman would never understand. A king needed to be firm in his ways and beliefs, while a queen should be the more soft-hearted. It was necessary that the two balance one another out, to keep perfect balance in their kingdom.

If he was king, who would be his queen?

_Sansa…_

The thought of her made him toss down his quill and stand up, opening his window to let in the sea air. As the salt of it tickled his face, he was reminded of his journey to the Eyrie with Sansa. How frightened she was. How foolish. Were he less of a man, he could have easily taken her against her will, and that little fool would have been powerless. In a way, he hated her innocence – the purity of her, the willingness to trust. But he hated this because it made her _weak_. It made her a victim. Their lessons had proved to change some of this within her, but it didn't diminish it completely. He wanted her to be like him – collected, cunning. Petyr needed her to be strong because it was the only way she would survive everything he had planned for her.

He did not love her in her current state. He desired her, oh yes, he often let his mind wander – but he always brought it back to the reality of the situation. Sansa was the type of woman who needed to be seduced, not forced into an arrangement. For this reason alone, he had left the Eyrie the night of her wedding, and had been in Gulltown ever since. Sure, he had clients to attend to, but he had to make sure that he didn't see her the next morning.

Harrold. "That moron." Mumbled Petyr, pouring himself more tea before resuming his spot at the window, watching the ships sail in. The man was so drunk when they hauled him off. By the way he was acting all night, he probably rode her like a broke horse. She would have cried, but she would have endured it. Petyr imagined her pain with a sigh. This wasn't the life he wanted for her. When he had asked Cersei to marry her, when they were both still in King's Landing, the bitch had merely laughed at the thought. Cersei was no longer in his way, and there was the silver lining in it all.

Petyr would be able to see Sansa rise to power, and be there by her side throughout her journey. Perhaps she thought that she would be free of him by marrying Harry, though Petyr knew that she was much smarter than that. He thought of her, with her bright blue eyes and her newly browned hair. It was the red in her that he loved, yes, but the brown suited her just as well. In fact, it helped him differentiate between her and Catelyn. His love for the two of them was quite different, after all.

Catelyn, elegant Catelyn. For so long he had fawned over her, desperately trying to get her attention. Yet, in the end, her family had given him the harsh name of "Littlefinger" and sent him away. When he had fought for her hand, she didn't care. Catelyn was too smart for that. And then Sansa came to the capital with her family. Her eyes were big pools of curiosity, her hair completely in her mother's image. There was more to this girl, though. He saw it from the start.

There wasn't necessarily a true attraction at the beginning. Sure – he had considered the ironic luck of it, but he never dared dream that this is where they would end up. It was the best possible path, as far as he was considered, but fate is rarely so giving.

He wondered where they would find themselves next. If Sansa ever thought of him as more than just a sly tyrant, owning every breath she took in return for her safety.

A knock at the door broke him from his thoughts. In two quick strides he was at the helm, opening it and allowing his visitor to step inside. Mara Harsen sighed, plucking off her gloves as he shut the door behind her.

"Lady Harsen," greeted Petyr, unceremoniously. She waved away his greeting before crossing her arms.

"I did it," Mara said flatly, her tone unamused. "I told her I knew her secret, and was seeking your affection."

With a nod, Petyr motioned for her to continue. "She threatened my life, Lord Baelish. I don't think I can play this game anymore."

"You act as though you have a choice."


	8. Chapter 7

Lord of the Eyrie. It was all in the details, it always was. Just when Alayne was sure she knew what was going on around her, Petyr had another trick up his sleeve. Though, she couldn't really consider it his fault. She had been so wrapped up in her own misfortunes that she had never even stopped to consider Robert in all of this.

Yes, sweetrobin – though he had been away for so long because of his illnesses – had returned to the Eyrie. The maesters who had been working so diligently to pinpoint the causes of his seizures had decided that it was best for him to remain in his own home. He was weak and quite frail when she first saw him again. A strong man carried him through the castle to his quarters as Alayne asked the maester who had accompanied him hurried questions.

"He sleeps mostly, because of the sweetsleep I have been giving him," answered Maester Colemon. "But his seizures show no hope of remission."

"How can this be, Maester Colemon? Is it because of… of his recent change in diet?" Asked Alayne, remembering with disgust how Lysa would feed him directly from her breast. The boy, at the age of 6, already seemed so withered.

"It's possible, my lady." They reached his sular, moving past the cold room and placing him into his covers. Alayne ordered a fire to be made, quickly, and asked the maester if she should have someone fetch him food.

"Only broth, my lady. He has a weak constitution these days." A servant took her leave, but Alayne stopped her.

"Have them boil a potato – a small one – and then finely mash it and mix it with the broth." She turned back towards the maester, who was regarding her curiously. "Is that a bad idea?"

"No, no – it's actually quite intuitive of you, my dear," he commended. "You clearly studied quite diligently with your own maester."

Taking the compliment with a modest nod, Alayne walked over to Robert and put her hand to his forehead. She expected him to be very hot, but he felt just as she did. He looked at her with weak eyes. His lips were cracked and dry from constantly purging his insides. Instantly, pity and guilt washed over her. If Lysa were still alive, the boy may not be experiencing such pain. Tucking his blankets around him tightly, Alayne offered him a comforting smile.

"Don't worry, sweetrobin, you are home now." Her words held a reassurance that she didn't truly feel. Robert's eyes only fluttered in response before closing and giving way to a deep sleep. Maester Colemon gestured for her to follow him out of the room.

"The boy needs a lot of attention. His seizures are quite sporadic, and if he is alone when one arises, it could kill him. Where is your father, Lord Baelish? This is surely not something that a young woman like yourself, only a few days after her wedding, should have to deal with."

"My father left two days ago," said Alayne, trying very hard to keep her voice casual and matter-of-fact. "The day after my wedding. He had to attend to some urgent business."

It was the truth, as far as she was concerned. Petyr's absence had been unexpected, but she was glad to not have him around to further confuse her feelings. Married life had already been a surprising turn of events for her, and she didn't know if she could handle juggling Petyr and her duties to Harry.

"Your husband, Ser-"

"My husband is," Alayne paused, trying to think of words to describe it. "Disengaged in matters of the Vale, currently. I am the one that you need, Maester Colemon, if you truly wish to see Robert get better."

"Your honesty is refreshing," stated Maester Colemon. "The boy's seizures come without warning. It is important to have someone by his side at all time. Whenever he is awake, though, it is imperative that you try to feed him. His body is teetering on the brink of being too frail to continue his existence. Broth is appropriate, you may put potatoes in it if you wish. Any meat that is red would be too strong for him, if he could even choke it down. It's a sad case, my lady, a very sad case."

"Is it foolish to hope for improvement?"

"Of course not, my dear. Hope and prayer have proven to be good for the soul, even my scientific mind cannot prove otherwise. But know that if he dies in your care, there is really nothing that you could have done differently. We have to be logical about the state of his body."

"Thank you for all your help, Maester Colemon. I'm sure you would like to get settled in your old quarters after your long journey – should I show you the way or do you remember?" Asked Alayne.

"I remember, child, thank you. Be sure to congratulate Ser Harrold for me on his luck in finding a bride." He said with a smile before taking his leave.

Alayne shared the smile with him, though her heart wasn't truly in it. They had been married only a few short days, but Alayne already saw a change in Harry. The day after their first night together, he seemed very distant. He responded to her questions, but was not much of a conversationalist. It was as though the marriage had changed him in some way. Unaware of how to fix things, Alayne sought out Lady Waynwood.

"He seems so unhappy… do you think it's because he has to stay in the Eyrie? Maybe he should go back with you for a while," suggested Alayne, at a loss. Anya shifted uncomfortably, sipping her tea. She could tell that the older woman was trying to think of a way to word what she wanted to say, and her lack of surprise was unsettling.

"I don't think that would be a good idea, my dear. Harry… Harry needs to leave everything from our home behind him."

"Are you sure? It's not even far from here – it's right within the Vale, and I wouldn't mind –"

"No, Alayne." Interrupted Anya. "Trust me in this. This is merely something that Harrold has to overcome."

And that had been the end of it. Alayne had a feeling that she didn't want to know more. It made her miss Petyr, however, as she knew that he could answer any question she had. With her questions unanswered, and her husband uninterested, she knew that the matters of the Eyrie would fall on her shoulders. It was better this way. She had learned a lot from watching the ways of the people in King's Landing, and she knew how to become a platform of power.

Whatever it was that Harry was hiding – she would let him hide it, perhaps even indulge in it. The more preoccupied he was, the more time Alayne had to make ties and connections as the only "seen" figure in the Eyrie. Petyr was gone, sweetrobin was bed-ridden, and with Harry too wrapped up in himself to care… there was no way that Alayne wouldn't hear about what was going on in the Vale. Like Cersei, she planned to become more involved than the men her little kingdom.

So, as the days passed, she catered to the little sweetrobin – often attending to him and helping feed him. She had yet to see him have one of his frightful seizures, but she knew that eventually she would have to bear witness. In truth, she felt a strongly maternal connection with little Robert. He was so helpless and frail – a feeling that Alayne was all too familiar with. Many of her days spent by his side were also spent in the company of Maester Colemon, who kept a close eye on the boy. The two talked often, about a great many things, and Alayne hoped that – in the future – she could trust him as a confidant.

One evening, as she was returning from a feeding session with Robert, Alayne saw that Harry was sitting on the edge of his bed with his face in his hands. Heaving a sigh, she sat next to him on the bed, folding her hands in her lap.

"I'm not pushing you to explain whatever this is to me – in fact, I don't want to know," said Alayne, careful with her words. "But we are married now, and that is how it will stay. So, if there is something that is making you unhappy… or something that you want to do, Harry, why don't you just tell me?"

He rubbed his temple lightly, staring at the rub on their floor. They hadn't had marital relations since that first night, and Alayne knew that Petyr would expect her to give Harry an heir. If he wasn't interested in her, she could at least make him more comfortable. "I don't think that this is something you would understand, Alayne."

"Perhaps not. Like I said, I don't want to know… but everyone can see how miserable you are, Harry, and I would be lying if I said it wasn't beginning to bother me." Placing a gentle hand on his back, Alayne waited for him to look at her before she continued. "Would leaving the Eyrie help you with… your struggle?"

"Lady Waynwood-"

"Let _me_ worry about Anya," insisted Alayne, taking hold of his hands. "I will make sure that you get whatever it is you need, discretely, but you need to keep your promises to me."

"What promises?" Harry asked, his eyes falling to her lips.

"The promises that a man makes a woman when she becomes his wife."

He knew what she meant. And although he kissed her as he undressed her and laid her down on the bed, there was nothing romantic in his movements. His eyes remained closed, and he never made a sound. There were no moans of pleasure or grunts of effort as he entered her without remorse. Harry merely moved through the motions until he found his climax, filling her with his seed and rolling over before falling asleep.

Alayne didn't bother getting her shift. She stared up at the ceiling and wished for a reprieve from this dull punishment.

"How is the little sweetrobin?" Asked Lady Waynwood. She hadn't become a permanent member of the Eyrie, but she visited very often. Alayne assumed it was so that she could keep an eye on their newborn marriage – curious as it was.

"Every day is a struggle for that poor boy." Said Alayne, sipping her tea. It had been a week's time since he had come to be with them again. Petyr was still absent, but the girl had done a very good job of keeping a firm hold on the Eyrie. "You can see it in his eyes, you know. We are so blessed to have our health."

"Oh, yes, quite." Agreed Lady Waynwood. Her teacup hit the table with a clunk as she looked around the room. "Where is Harry? I haven't seen him since I got here this morning."

"Hunting." Alayne's answer was succinct, and she hoped that Anya caught onto her tone. He was no longer her ward, and as such she had no right to question his whereabouts. "I was thinking that you and I could visit the village near here, I heard that they have a fountain that is kind to the eyes."

"No, no, that wouldn't be the best idea. Not today, my dear," she tossed out the idea as though it were rubbish. Alayne began to question her when the woman continued on. "Tell me, dear, what do you know of the Kingdom of Vale and Sky?"

"I… I know that they have been a neutral party in the surrounding battles, as of late." She said with uncertainty, put off guard by the sudden question.

"Yes. Did you know that, before the Targaryens took leave of this land, House Arryn served under them as Lords Paramount of the Vale?"

"Is that why there is no king in this area – why no one here believes themselves entitled to the throne? Because they gave up their rights to the Targaryens?"

"I believe you could consider that a part of it, yes. All of the houses swore fealty under Aegon, which of course you must remember those stories – they teach them to you at a very young age, if I remember correctly." Finishing her tea, Anya gestured for a servant to refill her cup. She looked at Alayne's uneaten lemon cakes and gave her a look of surprise. The girl merely complained of a weak stomach that day, and bid the woman continue. "Well, the Vale has always remained a vigil of strength and power. Gulltown is an essential part of the trades that go in throughout our world. If we closed our ports to those we were at war with – it would hurt them - but it would also damage us. So, you see, sometimes it is better to take the neutral path, and spare the lives of those in your kingdom."

"So, you're saying that as long as no one brings a war to our front steps… we should not get involved in the happenings of Westeros?"

"Ah, it's all probably hard to understand, someone as young and unexperienced in the ways of the world. Trust me when I tell you that your ignorance is bliss." Anya blew on her warm refill of tea. "I'm just saying that, as long as I've lived here, I haven't felt the pains that those in King's Landing do. I have my three sons, whom are all very healthy. The mountains are within my reach, and so is the sea. What else could one possibly want?"

Alayne took a heavy sip of her tea. She realized now that Lady Waynwood was afraid of change. Robert's decline in health could mean that Harry would soon be Lord of the Vale. Could he be foolhardy enough to want to start a war with his surrounding kingdoms? The thought didn't make sense to Alayne. He, himself, hardly had royal blood – and for all they knew, Alayne was a bastard. The "Stone" that her name had held was the same as the "Snow" that her brother Jon knew all too well. Each kingdom had their own way of naming the bastards, but they were bastards all the same. What could Anya Waynwood know about honor? Her name meant nothing to Alayne, but everyone knew the name Stark. Everyone knew the red hair of a Tully.

"Off in your head again, dear?" Chided Anya, but she followed it with a light hearted laugh. Alayne apologized, giving her a smile.

"It's just so much to think about. Though, I still hope for sweetrobin's health."

"Yes, of course, don't we all?" Anya took a sip of her tea and nodded absently. It went without saying that the woman hoped Robert would pass into the next world. Harry, as her ward, would take his place – and why wouldn't she want that? She had taken him into her home and had taught him the ways of her lineage, given him a title to be proud of, and made him into someone worth knowing. Little did she know that Harry would not hold that title for very long.

"Lady Hardyng?" A young servant, possibly around Alayne's age, called from the doorway. She bid her enter. "I'm sorry to interrupt – Lord Robert has just had one of his seizures, you see, and he-he is calling for you. Maester Colemon sent me right away."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Anya, you'll have to excuse me," Alayne said, gathering her skirts.

"Not at all, Alayne – I love our little chats!"

Bidding her farewell, Alayne followed the girl down the hall. She was jittery, as though something had frightened her. Her hair was frazzled slightly and there was something moist and pale soaking into her skirts. As they turned down the corridor to Robert's quarters, Alayne stopped the girl.

"Are you all right?" She asked her.

"Yes, yes, o-of course, we just-"

"What is your name?"

"Nora, my lady." The girl was so uncomfortable. Alayne could see her visibly shaking now, and she put both hands on either of her shoulders to steady her.

"Nora, did you witness Robert's seizure?" she asked. The girl nodded, her eyes wide. Alayne gave her a comforting smile, squeezing her shoulders slightly. "I'm very sorry that it affected you so severely. Why don't you go take a moment for yourself – drink some tea, change your dress – and go back to your duties once you feel that you are ready?"

"No, I…" Nora drifted off as she saw the look of authority in her lady's eyes. "Yes, I will. Thank you, Lady Hardyng, thank you so much."

She watched as the girl scurried away, wondering at the horror she had seen.

"Your father has been gone for weeks now," commented Harry, watching as Alayne stirred Robert's usual broth and potato mixture. She had some turkey with her, as well, and she thought she might try her luck with it. "I'd rather get my life lessons from him then have to endure another speech from Anya."

Alayne laughed, knowing that he had promised to meet with her for a luncheon that day. "I'm sorry, Harry, but my father has always been like this. One morning I'll wake up and see that he is gone. Then, without any warning, he appears at the breakfast table a week later as though he had never left."

"Do you know who he is meeting with?" Asked Harry, watching as she spooned the mixture into the boy's mouth.

"Don't be stupid, Harry." Alayne scolded. She didn't speak to him the way a woman should speak to her husband, but then, they weren't truly husband and wife. He was as disinterested in her as she was in him. It went unsaid, but they both knew it. Why should she be subservient to someone who doesn't truly care for her, let alone respect him?

"Can't blame me for trying," Harry said, shrugging it off. "Are you sure you don't want to join me for this wonderfully invasive lunch I'm going to have?"

"Please," she replied, wiping off Robert's chin. "You know she wants you alone so she can ask you all kinds of sordid questions."

"You're just lucky you don't have to answer to someone." Sighed Harry, he put a hand on her shoulder and bent to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. "Bye for now."

When he closed the door behind him, Robert's eyes fluttered open. Alayne smiled. The boy often pretended to be asleep when others were in the room so that he could hear their conversations.

"How does it taste today, my Lord?"

"Different," he said, trying to hold the spoon for himself. "What's the green?"

"Sage. I read in one of Lord Baelish's books that it has great healing properties. They say it will stimulate your appetite and cool your body and your brain. Does it taste bad?"

"I don't know," he replied, his hand faltering. She quickly helped him, getting a few more spoonfuls into him before letting him rest. It appeared there was no hope for turkey that day. She gave him some water, feeling his forehead for a fever and happily finding none. As she gathered up her things, Robert put out a weak hand.

"Please, don't go." His voice was so weak that it made Alayne's heart ache. She promised that she would stay until he fell asleep. Gently, she rubbed her hands up and down his arms, hoping to soothe him into a soft sleep. Some days his seizures were few and some days they were many, but she hoped that this day he would have none. Alayne hoped for this every day.

She awoke with a start. Alayne hadn't even realized she fell asleep, and now her body was shaking. Her mind panicked – what was happening? Where was she?

As she lifted her head, she saw that it was the bed that was shaking, not her. In horror, she looked up to see Robert seizing before her. His eyes were rolled back in his head as his body shook with inhuman tremors. A fear crept through her, as she had never seen such a thing, and as she heard him begin to choke on his own vomit, she knew she must do something.

Jumping out of her seat, she turned him on his side. His body fought against her, the frail sweetrobin seemingly overcome by a strong demon. As he thrashed, she tried to keep him on his side – but she was weak compared to him. The way he moved was unreal, as though someone had control of his body and was shaking it madly. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she held onto him with all her might.

"Sansa." A voice behind her. Hands pried hers from the boy. "Sansa, you can't make him be still. You have to let him work through it."

Through tear blurred vision, she saw that Petyr was the one who pulled her away. "Petyr?" His face was one of pure concern and it melted her heart instantly. She threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him to her tightly. Petyr's arms wrapped around her naturally, squeezing her against him. He dug his face into her hair and neck, breathing in the scent of her. The smell of mint and cloves she had come to associate with Petyr came through her nose, and she reveled in the familiarity of it.

The sound of rustling robes made them stiffen and break apart. Maester Colemon stood next to sweetrobin, who was at the end of his seizure. He felt the boy's head before cleaning up the vomit. Alayne's heart raced as she looked between Petyr and Colemon. No one said anything, but she was certain. They had been found out.


	9. Chapter 9

"You were right to put him on his side," Maester Colemon said, breaking the silence. Alayne's heart pounded away in her chest, and even Petyr looked slightly perturbed.

The shock of the maester's sudden appearance, coupled with her burst of affection towards Petyr, had left the girl in a state of immobility. She stared at Colemon. Petyr was rubbing his hand against his temple, no doubt wondering what he would have to do to ensure this never left the room. Meanwhile, sweetrobin's breathing was hoarse and troubled. He coughed in his sleep so hard that it shook his entire body.

"Maester Colemon-t," Petyr began, but the maester was quick to silence him.

"Lord Baelish, do you know how long I worked under Lysa Tully?" He asked, looking at Petyr beneath a furrowed brow. "A long time. I have always had a particular interest in Robert's health, so I followed them here from King's Landing. And, despite Lysa's overbearing love for her son, she was always a hindrance to his health – rather than an advocate for prosperity. Your daughter, however, has been nothing but helpful and questioning. She is a joy to talk to when talking care of the boy and is consistently eager to learn how the human body works. The Vale is a dull enough place. I would not seek to expunge the one person here whom I thoroughly enjoy."

"I hope you are not only saying that because it is what you think I want to hear, Maester." Threatened Petyr, his voice like an icy breeze that chilled the room. Colemon looked at him impatiently.

"Do not bother threatening me, Baelish. If I wanted the queen to know your secrets I would have sent a raven to Westeros already. You may have everyone else fooled, but I've spent enough time around Tully women to know one when I see one."

"Please," the words finally broke through Alayne's frightened lips. "Don't tell anyone. If Cersei finds out that I am here, I know she will kill me."

"My lady, I wouldn't dream of it." He said with a smile, making his old face look a touch more youthful. "But I have no doubt that one of your inhabitants saw Petyr enter the castle, so you should both go greet them all, as it is most certainly time for supper."

"Thank you, Maester," Alayne said hurriedly, knowing that Petyr was on the brink of spewing out another threat. She grabbed his arm and pulled him from the room, desiring nothing more than to leave that moment of terror far behind her. When the door made it's finally clunk as it pulled shut behind them, her heart finally began to slow down.

Alayne pressed her head against the cold stone of the wall and let out a shaky breath. For the first time since she had escaped King's Landing, she felt the familiar fear of being in tremendous danger. It had been so unexpected, though – seeing Petyr there, so suddenly, in her hour of need. Desperation had gotten the better of her, and were it anyone other than Maester Colemon that entered the room, she could have ruined all her progress.

"I see you've been making allies," observed Petyr, his voice a touch hoarser than usual. A scoff escaped her lips as she pulled away from the wall to look at him. She knew her glare was fierce just by the look on his face.

"Why did you leave?" She didn't mean for it, but her words were loud – almost a scream. Putting a hand to her mouth, Alayne calmed herself. "Why?" She insisted.

"I had business to take care of." Petyr shoved her down the hallway, knowing her raised voice would draw attention from the servants. She didn't bother resisting, but she wasn't going to keep her mouth shut.

"Oh don't lie to me, Petyr," spat Alayne, hating his calm presence – his bored look. A reaction from him was all she wanted; something to show that he was human. But he was silent. His hand stayed on her back forcefully as he moved her down the halls. "You got what you wanted when you married me off."

He threw open the door to his study and pushed her into it, slamming the door behind them. "Soon I'll be with child and then you can kill Harry, who doesn't even _care_ that we're married, and then you'll turn my child into some power craving mad man. Right? That's all you've ever wanted!"

"Shut up!" He seethed, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her into silence. His touch was hard against her, but she was ever defiant.

"Admit it! I'm nothing but a… a tool for you! I'm not my mother – I'm not Catelyn – you just wish that I was!" Alayne's words were near screams. Her body was hot and her heart was beating at record speeds once more. Although, when she realized what she had said, she relaxed her shoulders – surprised at herself. Was the worry that Petyr only wanted her because she looked like Catelyn too much to handle? Had she unknowingly become insecure about it? She hardly thought about it, but perhaps she was lying to herself. Petyr grit his teeth.

"You said once before that you were my willing victim, Sansa," said Petyr, releasing her from his grip. She nodded. "Has something happened to change your mind, then?"

"If you're going to make me do all of these things, Petyr, you have to… be here to help me!" Cried Sansa, throwing her arms up in exasperation. "I can't do this on my own, you know."

"It seems that quite the opposite is true. I was away and you made an ally."

"Maester Colemon just thinks I'm bright," she said. "But soon he'll tire of me, too. I just… I wish you would have told me you were leaving."

"I thought it was what you wanted – to be able to enjoy your newlywed bliss without worrying about me interfering. I was certain that I was doing you a favor."

"Please. Harry doesn't care about me. I hear the maids whispering, I know he has another woman," sniffed Sansa, shaking her head. "No one is on my side but you. I need you to be here with me."

Petyr's features softened. He brought a hand to her cheek and stroked his thumb across her cheek in the familiar way that he used to. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his hand, feeling him move closer to her. When his lips brushed against hers, she kissed him back fully, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him against her. Sansa had missed his touch so much, and her lips trembled in response. His right hand found itself through her hair and cradled her head while his left hand splayed against her lower back. Their embrace was so intimate that Sansa couldn't help but let out a small moan, causing Petyr to smile against her lips.

When he broke the kiss, he kept her in his arms, keeping their bodies locked together. "You are Sansa, and that is why I want you. Not because of who your mother was. And this wasn't what I wanted for you, sweetling. I wanted so much _more_ for you, but it was all taken away. That is why we have to do these awful, horrible things, my sweet… to take the revenge we are owed."

Petyr pushed on her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were gentle and warm. "I can see that married life has been difficult for you, and I am sorry. We will make it better, but right now, we need to go attend the supper that no doubt has more people than we want to deal with."

"Do we have to?" She asked, moving away from him so as to gather her wits.

"I'm afraid so," he said, adjusting the collar of his shirt. "Try to act… cheerful. Don't give Harry a reason to think I've been told he's up to something."

Trying to focus her thoughts and feelings into the face of Alayne, she followed Petyr to the dining hall – where many had gathered. They had most likely heard of his return and wanted to discuss important matters with the Lord Protector. Lady Waynwood's smile was strained, Alayne noticed, taking her seat to the right of Petyr. Harry sat beside her and welcomed her with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

She smiled at him, taking the glass of wine that was handed to her and taking a large sip. "I didn't think you'd ever make it dinner," Harry said, a hidden question in his words.

"Father surprised me while I was taking care of Robert – he talked with Maester Colemon for a while before we came down." Alayne explained, watching as she shoveled another helping of meat into his mouth. His table manners were ghastly, but it helped to alleviate the hot feelings she had experienced only moments ago while in Petyr's embrace. When Harry touched her she felt nothing, because they both knew he was only doing so out of necessity. His comments about her being his "pretty wife" fell short when it came time to enter their bed chambers. Petyr's touch had set her skin aflame and made her body shudder with anticipation.

"How did your talk with Anya go?" She heard herself asking Harry, as though watching herself in a dream. It was hard to pretend that she hadn't been faced with extreme emotion and need only moments ago, but her subconscious seemed willing to carry her through it.

"She seems to think she still has some control over me, even though I'm married and no longer her ward," explained Harry. He jumped into some rant about his age, his soon-to-be legacy as the Young Falcon, his rights, and all other things that didn't interest her. She responded at the right times, even held a conversation with him through the duration of dinner – but she wasn't really there. Alayne was talking, but it was Sansa who dictated her thoughts.

Sansa, who had thrown herself into Petyr's arms and felt the sweet touch of his kiss, thought about what it all meant. When she began this journey by lying for Petyr about her aunt Lysa, she was certain that it would only last as long as necessary for her to find her way to freedom. But things had changed. What was freedom? Was it safety from the Lannisters? She would never experience that. If every Lannister dropped dead on that day, Sansa would still be faced with their loyal servants who wished her dead.

So what was it she wanted? A loveless marriage? When Harry bedded her, Sansa only wanted to cry. The lack of intimacy made her feel disgusting and used, but she reminded herself that she was using him, too. It seemed that, in this game of thrones, there were no innocents. Everyone did what they thought they must do in order to survive.

For Petyr, this meant being smarter than everyone around him. He had to stay two steps ahead of everyone and had to have a plan for every circumstance. She had only been playing the game for a short while, but it was long enough to know that what Petyr did took extreme skill, patience, and wisdom. No one seemed to be honest about what they wanted, or even forthcoming about what they planned on doing. Everyone was out for themselves, and Harry was no different. Sansa saw how he looked at Robert Arryn with disgust. Sweetrobin's condition worsening only brought Harry happiness, and hope, that he would soon be Lord of the Vale. He didn't even have the gumption to hide his feelings in the presence of the poor boy.

These were things that Sansa knew she must face. No one was innocent. Even her father, Ned Stark, whom she had loved so much and looked up to with such bride, had a bastard son – Jon Snow. Had he ever loved her mother, or were they doing the same dance that she did with Harry? Sansa chose to believe that they did love each other, but that it didn't come until long after they'd been married. That was as it was supposed to be – but she knew she'd never see the day when her feelings towards Harry turned to that of love. She was as much a tool for him as he was to her, and whatever it was he was hiding, someday she would learn about it… and she knew that Petyr would make her exploit Harry with what she knew. It would all happen this way because that is how it was _supposed_ to happen.

Supper ended without her noticing. Most people went into the music room to talk and laugh and drink wine, but Alayne sailed off into Petyr's library. She had been spending a great deal of her time there, researching and reading. Robert's illness had become somewhat of a fascination to her, and she thought that if she read enough about various sicknesses, the answer would find her.

She had just sat down with a medical journal that she had begun the day prior when Petyr came through the door. He gave her a smile and shut the door behind him.

"It seems we are always together in this room," noted Petyr.

"This is my favorite room, actually. No one else likes to come in here… they have no reason to, I guess," admitted Sansa, knowing that she could finally let down her guard for the evening. "At least people leave me alone in here."

"Unfortunately, my sweet, there will be no alone time for you on this night." Petyr carried a chair over to the table in one hand, holding a decanter of wine and two glasses the other. "I have been gone for two weeks now, and I would like to hear about your marriage."

"There's not much to tell," she admitted, watching him pour the wine across from her. "All of his charm really went out the window the moment we were wed."

"How do you mean?" Petyr asked, pushing her glass over to her.

"Well, I'm not sure… I suppose it doesn't really bother me because I know that he… well… he won't always be around," said Sansa, sipping her wine. "But he seemed so sad the day after. So morose, as though he had made a huge mistake."

"But you still…" He trailed off, but she knew what he meant. She nodded.

"That first night, yes, but I had to force him into it the second time."

"Oh really?" His voice held an amused note to it that reflected in his eyes. "I can't picture you doing that, little bird."

"It's not like that, Petyr," scolded Sansa, rolling her eyes as she let out a sigh. "I told him that whatever it was, he should just make it better – or do it, whatever he wanted – and keep his obligations to me. Any time he touches me I just pray for it to end quickly."

"I am sorry to hear that," mulled Petyr, drinking his wine and looking over his collection of books. "Though, unfortunately, it is the case for most young women. Tell me, do you know what it is that he is hiding from you?"

"Well," she began, thinking of certain whispers she had heard from the people around her. "The girls who help me dress each morning… they try not to let me hear them, but sometimes I still do. I heard them say that Harry had another woman and a bastard child, and that they wondered if I knew about it."

"A child already? At such a young age," considered Petyr. "That could cause an issue for us."

"Do you think there is any truth in it?" Sansa asked, knowing that Petyr may already be aware of its validity.

"As long as you can give birth to an heir, it should resolve itself. With Harry's mind elsewhere it's important that you hold him to his duties as a husband. Perhaps even seduce him."

Sansa choked on her wine, causing Petyr to chuckle happily. She wiped the red away from her mouth and stared at him with all seriousness. "You can't be serious, Petyr, what would I know about that?"

"Maybe I could teach you." He suggested, a wicked smile crossing his features that made him look youthful and spirited. As she felt her face get red, she watched his smile deepen and gave him a mock glare.

"You're terrible."

"Am I? I suppose I could leave you, then," Petyr abruptly stood, reaching for his wine. Sansa grabbed his hand.

"No, don't." Her grip was firm but her eyes were soft. "Please. I haven't really… been able to be myself ever since the wedding."

Petyr looked surprise, but said nothing. He resumed sitting across from her. "I hear that you've been attending to our little sweetrobin quite diligently." Commented Petyr. "It seems to be quite the topic among the people of the Vale."

"Really? Why?"

"Well, your new husband is the apparent heir to the throne, currently. If you could really call it a throne. And you are doing all you can to keep the power in Robert's hands… seems a bit odd, doesn't it?"

"Are you saying I should stop helping him?" Sansa didn't like the idea of giving up on her hopes for a healthy Robert.

"Not at all – in fact, I quite like the image it puts out - Alayne Hardyng, the caring young woman. It suits the true you underneath all of that hair dye."

The thought made Sansa smile. She enjoyed the time they were spending together, and talked with him at length. Even though she never knew whether or not he was being honest, Sansa found that Petyr was a better companion than anyone else, simply because she didn't have to constantly lie to him. They talked for quite some time before the girl finally became too tired to continue. He offered her a light kiss as she left and she felt her stomach buzzing all the way to her chambers.

**_PETYR_**

He awoke before the dawn, as he had always done. A plate of ham, potatoes and a warm glass of tea waited for him in his solar, as usual. As far as the little things were concerned, Petyr's life had hardly changed at all. He dressed himself each day in form-fitting clothes that held shades of black, grey or pale green. A few mint leaves followed his breakfast each morning, as Petyr had found long ago that people enjoy speaking to someone who has a particular scent upon their breath. He'd known enough lushes to recognize that the smell of fermented fruit was a terrible odor to have in one's mouth.

So, when Petyr fetched his head of the Eyrie's servant staff – Mr. Pott – the elder man was more inclined to forgive the early nuisance. Petyr informed Pott that the maid known as Nora was to be reassigned as Alayne's personal handmaiden. The girl had shared a story of her kindness towards the servant girl, and he knew that Alayne could use some loyal servants in the Eyrie. An act of kindness was, despite his best efforts to prove otherwise, the best way to win over those in the less fortunate crowds.

Pott assured his Lord Protector that she would be put to work immediately at Lady Hardyng's side. Thanking the old man, Petyr began to prepare for another journey to Gulltown. He didn't want to leave Sansa so soon, but he knew he would only be gone for a short while. Her comments about Harrold the night prior had left him with an unsettling sense of worry. One could compare it to a father's worry for his daughter's wellbeing, but he knew it was much more.

In Gulltown, one of his many loyal followers had already begun looking for Harry's supposed other woman. And, because Sansa had mentioned Harry was going to be busy with Anya all day today, he knew that it was the perfect time to investigate. He ached to stay and spend more time with Sansa, but he knew what his duties were. Numbing the dull aches of his heart was something that Petyr had grown all too accustomed to, and because of this, he rode to Gulltown without complaint.

He found his man just as the sunrise began to cast its tentative rays over the city. It had to fight its way through gray clouds and harsh fog, but that was simply the ways of winter. The air was crisp, and he knew that Sansa would enjoy it.

"A butcher's daughter, my Lord," his man explained, leading him down a street that was somewhat busy with people opening their shops for the day. He could see the sign for the butcher's shop ahead of them. "Pretty thing. She has one child and rumor is another on the way. Her father is too lenient, you ask me, my Lord – takes care of the both of them. Mother passed away some time ago."

"You have been most helpful, Henry," said Petyr, dropping a bag of coins into the man's grimy hands. "Run along now."

The peasant did as he was told, scurrying away as quickly as possible. Petyr turned his attention to the butcher's shop, eyeing its window to see if anyone was inside. Seeing the front door ajar, he walked up the path and peeked inside. There was meat everywhere, of course, as well as knives and other tools for handling meat. Although the door was open, he wasn't sure if they had opened for the day, so he knocked against the frame as he came to the threshold.

"Be with you in a moment!" Called out a jolly voice. Petyr took this as an allowance inside, and walked through the shop with his hands clasped behind his back. It was obvious that the butcher dealt mainly in pork, as sausages, bacon and pork chops seemed to be the highlight of his store. The meat was red and firm – a sign of a great butcher.

A portly man came from a doorway behind the counter, his hands full of cuts of steak. He offered Petyr a smile as he dropped the meat onto his worktable and wiped his hands on his already bloodied apron. "I'm Bradley the Butcher," the man introduced, smiling at the ironic nature of his own name, as he had probably done quite often. "What can I do you for today, sir?"

"My home has become quite littered with new folk – there was a marriage, you see – and I feel for my cook, the poor dear," he began to explain, still looking around at all of the meat as though it truly interested him. "And I wanted to present him with a rather large piece of meat that he could turn into a rather large pot of stew – one that would easily feed a rather large group of people with ease."

"Oh, a kind lord you are!" Commented the man. "I think I can get you something for that – I can cut it fresh for you, too, if you don't mind waiting a few moments…?"

"Not at all. I'd also like some of these sausages you have here, they look very delicious – the mark of a true craftsman," he said with a smile, gesturing towards the sausages. Bradley puffed up with pride, thanking him deeply before going into the back and calling for his daughter to help the man out front.

Petyr waited, hearing her footsteps. When she walked out into the shop she gave him a light smile, though it was obvious her mind was elsewhere. Her hair was dark and her features quite succulent. The rounded curve of her hips was accentuated by the fullness of her breasts, and although she was fair in the face, Petyr had no doubt her main draw was the matured body she had.

"And are you Bradley's daughter?"

"Yes, my lord," she nodded, wrapping up the sausages for him.

"My daughter has similar hair," he commented, placing his hands in front of him.

"I got mine from my mother," said the girl, weighing his sausages. Unlike Sansa, this girl was seemingly disinterested in the world. She kept her eyes down when she spoke and held a low tone in her voice that suggested a dimwitted mind. Harry's tastes were indeed being questioned as Bradley returned from the back, a huge slab of meat wrapped between brown parchment papers and wrapped up with twine.

"This should be exactly what you're looking for, and the marbling is beautiful," assured the butcher, patting the package as he set it down. Petyr graced him with a warm smile, thanking him as he paid and stacking the packages. The girl had already returned to the back of the shop, so he didn't get a proper farewell from her – but he had seen what he came to see. Petyr would dedicate her face to memory if the need to see her again ever arose.

Alayne hadn't seen Petyr all morning. She had breakfast with Harry and then released him to Anya's will, no doubt lecturing him on something.

Still, her morning had started off quite well. Nora surprised her by telling her with giddy delight that she was to be Alayne's new handmaiden. The happiness no doubt came from a release from the duty of sweetrobin's care. As she had brushed Alayne's hair, she twittered on and on about how lucky the lady was to be married to someone like Harry. All the girls talked about how handsome he was, she confided, whispering to Alayne as though there was anyone in the world _other_ than his wife who should care about such things. She listened with amusement, mostly because she remembered not so long ago when she was a happy young girl, too.

Nora's braid work was impressive. Alayne admired her hair that hung around her shoulders, laced with braids that were intricately placed. If Nora stayed in good company, she could do well for herself with the talents she had. Taking her eyes from the mirror in the hallway, Alayne looked down the hallway. She could hear voices talking excitedly. Normally, she may have hovered near the door, and listened to what they were saying.

Instead, Alayne wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and entered the gardens. It hadn't snowed in a few days, but there was still white covering every branch and flower. None of the other inhabitants of the Eyrie came out to the gardens, as they were all unfamiliar with the cold, but Alayne enjoyed coming out with a collection of seeds that she had snuck from the kitchen and feeding the birds.

Little, singing birds flocked to her side every time she stepped outside. If one watched her in her daily practices, they may think that she could even speak to the birds. Sometimes, Alayne thought she could. They never scared away from her and always came to her call, which made her feel as though she had secret little friends all around her. Her favorite was a small mockingbird that held colors of grey, black and white. It reminded her, in more ways than one, of Petyr. It enjoyed perching itself on her shoulder as she walked around the gardens.

"I checked on Robert earlier today," she told the birds. "They told me he hasn't had a seizure since the last time. I hope they get fewer and fewer until they don't occur anymore."

Rapidly, the bird chirped a reply. She couldn't understand it, of course, but she liked to pretend that she could. "I don't know if sweetrobin will ever truly be well… but I would like him to live his life in less pain. He didn't do anything to deserve his frailness, it was decided for him."

"That is awfully kind of you," a voice called, scaring the birds into a flurry as they flew away. Alayne was saddened at their sudden disappearance and turned to the man at fault. Maester Colemon, dressed in his usual plain, brown robes, had joined her in the garden without her realizing. As he neared her, she felt her body stiffen – remembering that the last time she had seen him, he had admitted to knowing who she was.

"Anyone else would do the same," Alayne said, reminding herself to reply to him. He gave a light chuckle, falling into step with her as she made her rounds. "How are you today, Maester?"

"Oh, quite well, quite well," he responded. "How has the Eyrie been treating you since our last encounter?"

Alayne clutched her hands tightly in front of her, internally coaching herself to remain calm and aloof so as to not allow Colemon to believe he had the upper hand. "It has been nice – people seem to be more active when my father is home."

"Well, many of them want to get on his good side. They know how powerful he is in our current situation."

"And what situation is that?" Alayne looked around, wondering if anyone was within earshot.

"Don't worry, there is no one near here. I checked before entering the gardens – they are all in the music room keeping one another company and talking politics." He assured her. "I know that you are frightened for your life, my lady, but I hope that you are aware that I am loyal to your family."

"Maester Colemon," Alayne sighed, biting her lip to keep her levelled at the harsh truth she knew she was about to face. "I have no family. They're all dead. Why would you be loyal to a dying lineage?"

"Dear girl, King's Landing has certainly jaded you," Colemon looked her up and down, his eyes all-knowing and his tone soft. "To be loyal is to stay loyal in all circumstances – not just those that are beneficial. Most of your family is dead, yes, but I've heard rumor that your sister is alive, and your brother Jon is as well. There is still hope for the Stark clan."

"I share your hope, though a part of me is simply clinging to my survival. This is not where I wanted to be – not where my mother and my father would have wanted me to be."

"Ah. And yet, here you are – so it is probably best to make the most of your situation, rather than curse it for even happening. You are handling it immensely well, my lady, as most people have no suspicions about you at all."

"That is somewhat relieving," Alayne said, noticing that they had come full circle in their walk. "My father wants me to sit in on a war meeting this evening, would you accompany me to see Robert before I go?"

"Absolutely, Lady Stark." His words struck a chord with her, and she smiled more genuinely than perhaps she had in weeks. It was good to be reminded that she was still a Stark – a powerful woman of the North, who did not fear winter.


End file.
